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THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 


9  :i  ^  n 


BY  COSMO  HAMILTON 


PLAYS 

The  Blindness  of  Virtue. 

A  Sense  of  Humour. 

Mrs.  Skeffington. 

The  Gadsbys  (with  Rudyard  Kipling). 

The  Wisdom  of  Folly. 

Soldiers'   Daughters. 

Castles  in  Spain  (with  m'Usic). 

Jerry  and  a  Sunbeam. 

The  Belle  of  Mayfair  (with  music). 

The  Catch  of  the  Season  (with  music). 

The  Beauty  of  Bath  (with  music). 

Arsene  Lupin. 

The  Mountain  Climber. 

NOVELS 

The  Outpost  of  Eternity. 
The  Infinity  Capacity. 
Adam's  Clay. 
Keepers  of  the  House. 
Nature's  Vagabond. 
Duke's  Son. 
Plain  Brown. 
The  Blindness  of  Virtue, 
etc. 

ESSAYS 

Brummell,  Idiot  and  Philosopher. 
Brummell  Again. 
Indiscretions. 
Impertinent  Reflections. 


THE 
BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

BY 

COSMO    HAMILTON 

'*  Virtue  is  an  angel,  but  she  is  a  blind  one,  and  must  ask 
of  knowledge  to  show  her  the  pathway  that  leads  to  her  goal." 


NEW   YORK 
GEORGE   H.    DORAN    COMPANY 


Copyright,    1913, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


PR 


TO 
BERYL 

WITH  ALL   MY   LOVE; 

FOR  WHOM   AND  THROUGH  WHOM   AND  TO  WHOM 

I  WROTE  THIS   LITTLE   PLAY 


CHARACTERS 

The  Reverend  Harry  Pemberton. 

The  Hon.  Archibald  Graham. 

Collins. 

Mrs.  Pemberton. 

Mrs.  Lemmins. 

Mary  Ann. 

Cookie. 

Effie  Pemberton. 

SCENES 

Act  I 
The  vicarage  garden.     Late  afternoon  in  July. 

Act  II 
Harry  Pemberton' s  den.  Six  weeks  later. 

Act  III 
Archibald  Graham's  bedroom.     Two  mornings 
later. 

Act  IV 
Harry  Pemberton' s  den.        The  same  morning. 


THE 
BLINDNESS   OF    VIRTUE 

ACT  I 

The  Scene  of  Act  I  represents  the  garden  of  the 
vicarage.  This  is  an  old  house,  almost 
Queen  Anne,  but  not  quite.  It  is,  how- 
ever, very  old  and  sweet  and  prim  and 
cheery  and  restful.  It  overlooks  the  little 
garden  with  motherly  eyes,  filled  with  quiet 
pride.  And  well  it  may  because  it  is  a  gar- 
den to  be  proud  of.  Against  a  trellis  on 
the  worn  red  walls  a  swarm  of  sweet  peas 
is  running,  many  of  whose  charming  heads 
are  peeping  boldly  to  see  the  world  with- 
out. In  all  the  beds  there  are  flowers, 
old-fashioned  and  rich  in  colour.  The 
lawn  is  shaved  close,  even  the  scanty  beard 
of  it  that  tries  to  grow  beneath  the  old  ce- 
dar tree  that  spreads  its  purple  arms  pro- 
tectingly  over  it  all.  Through  the  white 
gates  that  cut  the  wall  in  two  the  village 
green  can  be  seen,  flat  and  bordered  with 
small  houses  all  with  their  own  bits  of  gar- 
9 


lo    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

den.  A  milkman's  white  horse  is  munch- 
ing while  he  can,  fowls  hunt  busily  for  suc- 
culent morsels  and  a  string  of  geese  wan- 
der aimlessly  about. 

The  front  door  of  the  house  is  open.  A  rather 
worn  oak  chair  can  just  be  seen  and  a  cor- 
ner of  a  very  elderly  Turkish  rug.  There 
drifts  into  the  garden  the  sound  of  some- 
one,—  almost  obviously  a  girl,  and  a  tem- 
peramental girl,  practising  on  the  piano, 
now  irritably,  now  languidly,  and  always 
with  an  underlying  sense  of  thinking  of 
something  better.  There  is  no  one  in  the 
garden  except  a  little  quaint  figure,  in  a 
home-made  black  frock,  higher  in  front 
than  behind,  and  a  large  apron,  ironed  and 
starched  too  stiffly.  On  her  whispy  hair 
is  stuck  a  whimsical  cap  that  is  altogether 
incapable  of  sitting  straight.  This  is 
Cookie,  who,  with  a  touch  of  bravado,  is 
picking  sweet  peas. 

Through  the  gates  comes  a  wiry  middle-aged 
man  with  the  moustache  of  one  who  drinks 
as  often  as  luck  wills  it  and  tight  fitting 
trousers,  cleverly  patched.  He  has  a  three 
days'  growth  of  beard  upon  his  chin  and  a 
quick,  cunning,  but  not  unhumorous,  eye. 
His  bare  brown  arms  are  closely  tattooed. 
There  is  the  Union  Jack,  the  crest  of  a  line 


ACT  I  II 

Regiment,  a  woman's  name,  a  bleeding 
heart  and  a  large,  repulsive  dragon.  He 
wears  no  collar.  There  is  a  coloured 
handkerchief,  wound  into  a  sort  of  rope, 
round  his  neck,  and  an  old  wide-brimmed 
strawberry  hat,  yellow  from  rain  and  sun, 
on  the  back  of  his  head.  This  is  Fred 
Collins,  the  gardener,  who  has  been  in  In- 
dia and  Singapore  and  Malta  and  Alder- 
shot  with  his  regiment  and  gravitated  back 
to  the  soil  and  his  native  village  to  a  wife 
with  no  front  teeth  and  curlers  and  five  per- 
petually dirty  children. 

Collins  {hotlyl.  Now  then,  what  are  you 
doing  with  my  sweet  peas  ? 

Cookie  [looking  up  quietly  and  speaking  in  a 
ladylike  voice].  Oh,  it's  you,  Fred.  I  thought 
I  knew  the  voice.     Nice  afternoon. 

Collins  \_more  angrily].  Nice  afternoon  me 
foot.  If  you  want  sweet  peas  ask  me  for  'em. 
Tearing  about  the  bushes  like  that  there,  rippin' 
off  the  buds. 

Cookie  [sweetly].  There's  a  nice  glass  of 
beer  jist  inside  the  kitchin  winder.  What  a 
funny  thing  I  should  have  thought  about  it. 

Collins  [obviously  appeased  but  not  going  to 
cave  in  at  once].  I  don't  interfere  with  your 
kitchin,  don't  you  interfere  with  my  garden. 


12     THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

.  .  .  Not  that  I  gets  much  satisfaction  from 
working  like  a  black  in  it.  The  Vicar  and  the 
missus  never  'as  no  time  to  look  round. 

Cookie.  Well,  we  can't  'ave  everything  in 
this  world. 

Collins.  I  don't  want  everything.  What  I 
want  is  for  them  as  I  works  for  to  appreciate  it. 

Cookie  [looking  at  him  with  eyes  wide 
open].  I  have  nothing  but  praise  for  you, 
Fred.  [Collins  opening  his  mouth  and  finding 
himself  unable  to  trust  himself  to  say  anything 
within  earshot  of  the  house,  goes  into  roars  of 
laughter."] 

Cookie  [who  has  won  the  rub].  You  ain't 
going  to  let  that  ale  get  flat,  are  yer? 

Collins.  Oh,  woman,  woman  in  our  howers 
of  hease!  .  .  .  Gor  blimey.  [Flings  up  his 
hands  and  goes  into  house.  Cookie  smiles  and 
then  turns  back  to  the  sweet  peas  which  she  con- 
tinues to  pick.  She  sings  quietly,  *'  Give  my 
regards  to  Regent  Street,"  stopping  in  the  mid- 
dle of  a  line  and  going  suddenly  and  swiftly  to 
gate.l 

Cookie  [addressing  an  unseen  dog  viciously]. 
I  see  yer,  yer  little  devil.  Been  in  the  pond, 
mucked  yerself  all  over,  nar  yer  goin'  to  sneak 
in  and  dirty  my  floors.  'Ook  it,  go  on  'ook  it ! 
If  you  think  you're  goin'  to  outwit  me  you're 
mistook,  you  streak  o'  cunning!  .  .  .  Go  and 


ACT  I  13 

roll,  go  on  now.  Go  and  make  yerself  re- 
spectable. .  .  .  Laugh  would  yer !  [^She  picks 
up  stone.  Collins  comes  out  of  house  brushing 
the  back  of  his  hand  over  his  moustache.'] 

Collins.  'Ere  now,  'ere,  'ere!  Cruelty  to 
animals! 

Cookie  [flaming  up].  'E's  not  an  animal. 
'E's  an  adventurer.  Little  beast.  'E's  as  bad 
as  an  open  sore  to  me.  .  .  .  Go  on  away. 

Collins.  I'll  soon  see  to  'im  for  yer.  [He 
goes  out  of  gate.]  I'll  biff  'im.  Bill,  come 
'ere,  darling.  [He  disappears.  Two  hands 
are  suddenly  bashed  upon  the  piano.] 

Cookie  [jumping].  Oh,  lor!  What's  that? 
[Effie  appears  at  window  below  door,  climbs 
out  of  it  and  comes  into  garden.  She  is  a  beau- 
tiful slim  girl  of  seventeen,  with  an  oval  face, 
large  eyes  full  of  a  restless  spirit  and  a  mass  of 
rich  brown  hair  patched  with  streaks  of  cop- 
per.] 

Cookie  [at  gate].  Well  done,  Fred.  Serve 
*im  right. 

Effie.     What's  the  matter,  Cookie? 

Cookie  [angrily].  That  there  dawg.  Lit- 
tle beast.  'E's  the  plague  of  my  life.  'E  eats 
like  a  giant,  and  be'aves  like  a  ragamuffin.  'Is 
one  joy  in  life  is  to  make  me  feel  a  fool.  If  I 
'adn't  been  along  of  your  father  and  mother 
for  twenty-two  years  I  should  give  notice. 


14    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Effie  [crossing  to  Cookie  and  putting  her 
arms  round  her'\.     No,  you  wouldn't. 

Cookie.     Yes,  I  should. 

Effie.     No,  you  wouldn't. 

Cookie.     Yes,  I  should. 

Effie.     No,  you  wouldn't. 

Cookie.  Well,  then,  no,  I  shouldn't.  [She 
bursts  out  laughing.']  There's  only  two 
things  that'll  make  me  give  notice.  Marriage 
.  .  .  which  ain't  likely,  and  bein'  turned 
out.  .  .  . 

Effie.  Which  isn't  likely  either.  Be  a  phi- 
losopher. Cookie. 

Cookie.  I  can't.  I  was  born  in  the  workus. 
[She  turns  to  gate  and  scuttles  over  to  it.]  Oh, 
you  would,  would  yer? 

Effie  [going  to  gate  and  talking  severely]. 
How  dare  you,  Bill !  Go  and  dry  instantly  and 
don't  appear  again  until  you're  thoroughly 
ashamed  of  yourself. 

Cookie.  And  you  might  add,  until  he  can 
make  no  marks  on  the  'all  floor.      You! 

Effie  [going  to  seat  under  tree,  with  a  sigh]. 
Ah,  me! 

Cookie.     What  did  you  say? 

Effie.     I  didn't  say  anything. 

Cookie.  No,  but  you  sighed  it  and  I  don't 
wonder. 

Effie  [sighing].     Why? 


ACT  I  15 

Cookie.  You  a  birthday  girl  struck  seven- 
teen and  left  all  alone  the  'ole  of  the  day. 

Effie.     Father  and  mother  are  busy. 

Cookie.  Father  and  mother  are  busy !  Did 
y'ever  know  'em  anything  else  week  in  week 
out?     I  call  it  a  shame. 

Effie.     What? 

Cookie.  Why,  that  the  Vicar  can't  get  even 
a  few  hours  off,  or  the  missus  either,  to  cele- 
brate the  event. 

Effie.  The  event  has  been  celebrated. 
Mother  gave  me  her  only  ring  except  two,  and 
father  presented  me  with  a  watch.  What  more 
could  I  have  ?     I  don't  deserve  either. 

Cookie.  Oh,  go  on!  All  the  same,  of 
course,  you  would  have  liked  your  father  and 
mother  to  spend  the  day  with  you.  I  think  it's 
a  bit  o'  cheek  of  old  Joe  Judd  to  need  the  Vicar 
until  after  your  birthday.  And  that  there  club 
too.  What's  the  parish  want  with  a  club? 
Isn't  eight  pubs  enough  for  'em?  ^Cookie  dur- 
ing this  speech  is  busily  picking  sweet  peas. 
Effie  has  put  her  head  down  on  her  arms  and  is 
sobbing  bitterly.^ 

Cookie.  Perhaps  you'll  get  a  game  of  golf 
with  the  Vicar  before  the  light  goes  and  that'll 
be  all  right,  won't  it?  \^She  looks  at  Effie, 
drops  the  sweet  peas  and  goes  towards  her 
quickly.']     Whyl  .  .  .  what's  this?     Miss  Ef- 


1 6    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

fie,  my  dear  .  .  .  my  dearie,  what  is  it?  Cry- 
ing on  yer  birthday?  Tell  an  old  woman,  then. 
[She  puts  her  arms  round  the  girl.'\ 

Effie  [still  sobbingl.  Oh,  don't.  Cookie, 
don't.  Leave  me  alone.  No  one  can  do  any- 
thing for  me.     I  feel  hopeless. 

Cookie  [shrilly'].  Hopeless  I  And  you  with 
a  birthday! 

Effie,  That's  why.  You  wouldn't  under- 
stand. /  don't  understand,  but  that's  why. 
[She  springs  up  and  puts  her  arms  round  the 
old  woman.]  I'm  seventeen  and  I've  done 
nothing,  seen  nothing.  I'm  seventeen  and  I'm 
treated  like  a  child.  I  am  a  child.  If  I  go  on 
living  here  I  shall  always  be  a  child. 

Cookie  [in  great  surprise].  But  you  don't 
want  to  go  and  live  away  from  here,  do  you  ? 

Effie.  Oh,  Cookie,  I  don't  know  what  I 
want.  I'm  always  wanting  something  and  I 
don't  know  what  it  is.  I'm  always  asking  my- 
self what's  the  matter,  what's  happened, —  I 
used  to  be  so  happy, —  and  I  can't  find  out. 
[With  sudden  impatience  and  self -disgust.] 
Oh,  what  a  fool  I  am.  For  gpodness'  sake  don't 
take  any  notice  of  me.  [She  flings  herself  into 
the  seat.] 

Cookie.  Don't  talk  to  me  like  that.  I  knew 
you  before  you  had  a  birthday  and  you've  just 


ACT  I  17 

got  to  tell  me  what's  worrying  you.     ^She  sits 
down  by  her  side.]     Now  then,  dearie. 

Effie  [catching  tip  Cookie's  hands'].  I'm  a 
beast.  I'm  dissatisfied.  It's  awful.  No  girl 
living  has  got  such  a  father  and  mother,  or  such 
a  home,  but  all  day  long  now  I  go  about  with 
a  great  constant  —  I  don't  know  what.  It 
makes  me  restless.  I  ask  myself  questions  that 
I  can't  answer.  Sometimes  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  or  when  I'm  reading  here  alone,  I  get  up 
and  go  and  stand  at  the  gate  and  try  and  peer 
over  the  horizon.  I  listen  for  something  that 
never  comes  and  wait  breathless  for  something 
that  never  happens.  I  feel  like  a  bird  shut  up 
in  a  cage  and  I  want  to  burst  the  bars  and  fly. 
Cookie  I     What  does  it  all  mean  ? 

Cookie  [^shaking  her  head].  I  always 
thought  you  was  so  happy. 

Effie  {vehemently].  I  am  happy.  I  adore 
this  place  and  I'd  die  for  father  and  mother, 
but  I'm  a  woman,  not  a  baby,  and  doesn't  life 
mean  something  more  than  the  duties  and  games 
that  I  do  every  day,  day  after  day,  week  after 
week,  year  after  year?  Isn't  there  anything 
more?  {She  springs  up.]  Why  don't  you  tell 
me  to  shut  up  ?  Why  don't  you  tell  me  that  I 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself? 

Cookie    [rising   and  putting   her   hands    on 


1 8     THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Ejjjie's  arm].  You  can't  'elp  it,  dearie.  It's 
the  east  wind. 

Effie  [simply].  Is  it?  Yes,  perhaps  it  is. 
But  I'd  give  everything  I  have  in  the  world  if 
this  queer  feeling  would  never  come  to  me. 
\_She  sees  sweet  peas  on  the  lawn  and  goes  to 
them  quickly.]  Oh,  look  at  these  darlings  on 
the  ground  I 

Cookie  [relieved  and  cheerful].  Oh,  my! 
I  must  have  dropped  'em.  I'm  picking  'em  to 
put  in  the  young  gentleman's  bedroom. 

Efjie  [on  her  knees  looking  up  quickly]. 
Mr.  Graham? 

Cookie.  That's  'im.  The  Vicar  told  me  'e 
was  comin'  this  afternoon  so  I've  made  the 
spare  room  a  sight  for  sore  eyes. 

EfJie.     Does  father  think  he's  coming? 

Cookie.     Why,  of  course.     Don't  you? 

EfJie.  No,  I  don't.  [Enter  Mrs.  Pember- 
ton.  She  is  a  beautiful  woman,  very  quiet  in 
manner,  a  little  delicate  looking.] 

Cookie.  Oh,  here  you  are,  at  last.  'Bout 
time  too. 

Effie.  Hullo,  mother.  [She  gets  up  and 
goes  to  her.]     Tired,  darling? 

Mrs.  P.     No,  dear.     Is  father  back? 

Cookie.  Oh,  father!  'E's  not  likely  to  be 
back  while  the  sun's  up  and  then  when  there's 
nothing  to  do  he'll  make  something. 


ACT  I  19 

Mrs.  P.     Is  Mr.  Graham's  room  ready? 

Cookie.     What  a  question! 

Mrs.  P.  Don't  let  the  mutton  be  overdone 
and  you'd  better  put  out  the  best  tumblers. 

Cookie.     Oh,  I  haven't  forgotten  'e's  a  swell. 

Mrs.  P.  And  don't  put  the  butter  in  the  as- 
paragus dish.     Serve  it  separately. 

Cookie.  Oh,  that's  the  latest,  is  It?  [She 
bursts  out  laughing.']  My  word  I  We  shan't 
know  ourselves  soon.  \She  goes  into  the 
house  with  a  ludicrous  imitation  of  a  sort  of 
lady.] 

Mrs.  P.  [taking  Effie  into  her  arms].  Well, 
darling?     Have  you  had  a  nice  birthday? 

Effie.  Yes,  mother.  Look!  [She  holds 
out  her  hand.]      It  fits  me  perfectly. 

Mrs.  P.  You'll  be  careful  not  to  overwind 
the  watch,  won't  you  ? 

Effie.     Yes,  mother. 

Mrs.  P.  I'm  so  sorry  that  father  and  I  have 
not  been  able  to  be  with  you  to-day,  darling. 
There  is  so  much  to  be  done  and  so  little  time 
to  do  it  In. 

Effie.  Oh,  please  don't  say  that,  mother. 
You  make  me  feel  a  beast. 

Mrs.  P.  [surprised].     Do  I?     How? 

Effie.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  After  all,  what 
does  my  birthday  matter,  when  people  are  dy- 
ing and  being  born  and  are  ill  and  starving  and 


20    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

in  trouble,  and  you  and  father  can  do  so  much 
for  them  all.     I  don't  count. 

Mrs.  P.  You  do  count  and  I  can  see  that 
you  mind.  It's  perfectly  natural.  But  you 
see,  darling,  duty  comes  first.  We  will  have  a 
musical  evening. 

Effie  [delightedly'].  Oh,  mother,  can  we? 
Do  you  think  father  will  have  time  to  sing  some 
of  his  old  Oxford  songs? 

Mrs.  P.     Yes,  if.  .  .  . 

Effie.     If  what? 

Mrs.  P.  If  nobody  wants  him  in  the  village. 
{Harry  Pemberton  appears  at  gate,  holding  bi- 
cycle.1 

Harry  [calling'].     Collins!     Collins! 

Collins  [of].     Sir? 

Harry.  Take  my  bike,  will  you?  I'm  afraid 
there's  a  puncture  in  the  back  wheel.  I  wish 
you'd  see  to  it. 

Collins  [at  gate].     Right  you  are,  sir. 

Harry.  As  soon  as  you  can.  I'm  certain  to 
want  it  again  to-day. 

Collins.  Right  you  are,  sir.  [Harry  enters 
the  garden.  As  he  does  so  Effie  makes  a  dart 
at  him  and  flings  her  arms  round  his  neck. 
He  stands  six  foot  one  of  bone  and  muscle. 
Under  the  brim  of  his  old  straw  hat  a  large, 
well-formed  nose  divides  a  pair  of  dark,  hu- 
morous, steady  eyes.     The  lips  of  a  particu- 


ACT  I  21 

larly  beautiful,  sensitive  mouth  are  smiling.  A 
long,  determined  chin,  great  square  shoulders 
and  a  back  as  flat  as  a  blackboard,  eager  hands, 
feet  stuck  into  large  shoes  studded  with  nails, — 
that's  Harry  Pemberton-I 

Harry  [kissing  her  and  then  holding  her 
away  from  him'\.  Seventeen,  seventeen! 
Think  of  it.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  you'll 
be  no  longer  my  little  girl,  but  a  woman  with 
her  hair  up,  stuffed  full  of  hairpins,  and 
being  your  father's  daughter  you'll  shed  'em 
about  the  passages.  .  .  .  I'm  sorry  I  couldn't 
give  you  anything  better  than  a  watch,  my 
baby. 

Efjie.  I  love  It.  It's  the  only  thing  I've 
ever  wanted. 

Harry.  The  only  thing !  That's  good.  It 
was  given  to  me  when  /  was  seventeen  and  if 
properly  treated  it'll  be  alive  and  kicking  for 
yet  another  seventeenth  birthday.  I  wish  I'd 
had  the  money  to  give  you  a  brand  new  one,  but 
I  think  you  know  that  this  old  watch  ticks  out  the 
great  love  and  friendship  and  respect  of  your 
old  chum  and  father,  eh,  darling?  [Effie  kisses 
Harry  emotionally. '[ 

Mrs.  P.  I  think  you'd  better  wear  your  best 
waistcoat  this  evening,  dear. 

Harry  [laughing  and  coming  down  with  Ef- 
fie'].     Not  I !     It  means  wearing  a  choker  with 


22     THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

it  and  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'll  do  that.  No  sign 
of  the  boy  yet,  I  suppose  ? 

Mrs.  P.     No.     But  everything's  ready. 

Efjie.     I  don't  think  he'll  come. 

Mrs.  P.     But  he  is  coming.     It's  arranged. 

EfJie.     I  don't  think  he'll  come. 

Mrs.  P.     Why  do  you  say  that? 

Harry.  Well,  I'm  beginning  to  wonder 
whether  he  will.  I  had  a  letter  this  afternoon 
from  his  father.  It  was  sent  down  by  train 
and  brought  to  me  at  Joe  Judd's,  who,  by  the 
way,  is  going  to  be  wheeled  round  this  after- 
noon to  see  the  sweet  peas. 

Mrs.  P.  [surprised].  A  letter  from  Lord 
Aberlady? 

Effie.     What's  it  about? 

•Harry  [sitting  on  seat].  Well,  it  evidently 
cost  the  old  gentleman  a  great  effort  to  write. 
It's  the  outcome  of  a  conscientious  desire  to  give 
me  the  whole  black  details  of  this  boy's  past. 

Mrs.  P.     Poor  boy. 

Effie  [sitting  on  her  legs  on  the  grass"]. 
Read  it,  father. 

Harry.  Perhaps  I'd  better.  I  shall  have 
to  cram  him  and  take  the  much  needed  money 
for  it.  But  you  two,  after  all,  will  have  to  put 
up  with  him  after  hours,  so  it's  as  much  your 
concern  as  mine.  [He  opens  letter.]  "  A 
hundred  Grosvenor  Square,  July  17,  nineteen 


ACT  I  23 

eleven.  Dear  Sir,  let  me  come  at  once  to  the 
reason  of  my  troubling  you  with  this  letter. 
You  have  made  it  convenient  to  receive  my  sec- 
ond son  into  your  house.  He  is  supposed  to 
be  with  you  this  afternoon.  I  have  already 
explained  to  you  that  the  reason  of  my  asking 
you  to  read  with  him  is  that,  under  existing  cir- 
cumstances, I  cannot  do  with  him  under  my 
roof. 

Efjie.     Old  beast  I 

Mrs.  P.     Hush,  dear. 

Harry  [dr'ily'\.  He  is  the  minister  for  edu- 
cation in  the  present  government  —  a  very  dis- 
tinguished man.  "  I  also  feel  that  I  may  not 
have  been  wholly  frank  with  you,  as  to  my  son's 
disposition.  Honestly  I  have  neither  his  con- 
fidence nor  his  obedience  and  my  efforts  hith- 
erto to  put  him  on  the  road  along  which  I  desire 
him  to  walk,  have  failed  utterly." 

Ejfie.  He  writes  like  a  minister  of  educa- 
tion I 

Mrs.  P.     Effie!     Effie! 

Harry  {reading^.  "Having  accepted  the 
charge  of  my  son  you  have  the  right  to  know 
the  following  details." 

Effie.     Now  for  it ! 

Harry  \reading'\.  "  He  was  educated  at 
Eton.  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  his  record  there 
was  a  bad  one.     If  it  had  not  been  for  his  ex- 


24    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

cellence  in  the  cricket  field  the  head  master 
would  have  rid  the  school  of  his  presence. 
Later  he  went  up  to  Oxford.  The  independ- 
ence of  the  undergraduate  did  not,  as  I  hoped, 
steady  my  son.  On  the  contrary,  his  career  at 
Oxford  was  short.  He  was  sent  down  in  the 
middle  of  his  second  year.  He  will  come  to 
you  aged  twenty-two,  having  been  almost  a  year 
in  London  at  a  loose  end.  He  is,  in  no  sense 
of  the  word,  a  degenerate,  nor  does  he  seem  to 
be  a  bad  hearted  young  man.  So  far  as  he  has 
permitted  me  to  make  his  acquaintance,  he 
seems  to  be  capable  of  improvement.  I  believe 
him  to  be  proud,  headstrong,  self-indulgent, 
generous,  utterly  uncontrollable  in  a  bearing 
rein,  but  so  easily  influenced  that  he  is  as  likely 
to  drag  my  name  into  the  gutter  if  left  with  his 
present  friends  as  he  is  likely  to  be  lifted  above 
the  ordinary  level  of  human  creatures  if  he  falls 
into  such  hands  as  yours.  {Ejjie  bends  down 
and  kisses  Harry's  hands-l  I  am  well  aware 
that  I  am  asking  you  to  undertake  a  grave  re- 
sponsibility. As  my  son  will  not  hesitate,  if  he 
does  enter  your  house,  to  pack  up  and  leave  it 
at  once,  should  he  not  take  a  liking  to  you,  the 
responsibility  is  one  which  may  not  last  long. 
I  trust  that  this  may  not  be  the  case  and  if  your 
Influence  saves  my  son  from  becoming  a  mem- 
ber of  the  regiment  of  dissipated,  shifty,  useless 


ACT  I  25 

and  harmful  creatures  into  which  so  many  of 
our  younger  sons  are  drifting,  I  shall  be  grate- 
ful indeed.  Believe  me,  dear  sir,  yours  faith- 
fully, Aberlady." 

Effie.     He  won't  come. 

Harry.  He  will  come,  and  what  then? 
[To  his  wife.l  Are  you  afraid?  Do  you 
think  he'll  have  cockshies  at  your  best  tumblers? 

Mrs.  P.  Three  hundred  a  year  will  go  a 
long  way  in  the  village.  But  utterly  uncontrol- 
lable, headstrong,  self-indulgent.  .  .  . 

Harry  [with  a  laugh"].  That  description  fits 
ninety-nine  per  cent  of  men  who  are  worth  their 
salt. 

Efjie.     He  won't  come. 

Harry.  He  plays  cricket.  All  I  hope  is 
that  he  bowls.  We're  frightfully  short  of 
bowlers,  and  if  he  plays  golf,  my  dear,  won't 
you  two  be  able  to  have  some  matches ! 

Effie  [jumping  up].  Ah!  If  only  he'll 
come.     Do  you  think  he'll  walk  or  have  a  cab? 

Mrs.  P.     Oh,  he'll  walk  of  course. 

Harry.     He's  certain  to  have  a  cab. 

Effie.  The  three  forty  will  just  about  be  in. 
I'm  going  to  see  if  there's  any  sign  of  him. 
[She  flies  through  the  gate.] 

Harry.  Young  Graham  will  be  a  godsend  to 
Effie.  I'm  afraid  she's  very  lonely  and  that  she 
mopes  sometimes. 


26    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Mrs.  P.  [surprised].     Lonely?     Why? 

Harry.  The  only  child,  you  see.  No  one 
to  play  with,  no  one  to  confide  In,  no  one  to 
quarrel  with,  no  one  to  compete  with.  It  isn't 
good. 

Mrs.  P.  [proudly].  But  she  confides  In  me, 
always. 

Harry.  Yes,  darling,  of  course  she  does. 
Let  us  hope  she  always  will.  Still,  I'm  glad 
that  young  Archie  Graham's  coming,  for  Effie's 
sake  as  well  as  for  ours.  Think  what  we  can 
do  among  our  poor  with  three  hundred  a  year. 
We  can  instantly  build  the  new  room  for  the 
club.  Won't  that  be  Immense !  I'll  give  the 
boy  six  hundred  pounds'  worth  of  tuition. 

Mrs.  P.  [smiling].  I  know  you  will.  The 
only  thing  I'm  afraid  of  Is  that  you  will  work 
too  hard. 

Harry.  No  man  can  work  too  hard. 
Life's  very  short  and  there  Is  much  to  be  done. 

Mrs.  P.  Harry,  how  did  Lord  Aberlady's 
letter  strike  you? 

Harry.  It  tells  us  nothing.  All  Archie 
Graham  wants  is  to  be  trusted.  Why,  if  I 
hadn't  been  trusted  and  put  on  my  honour  I 
should  have  gone  hopelessly  to  the  devil.  [He 
puts  his  hand  on  his  ivife's  shoulders.]  Have 
you  had  time  to  realise  that  our  baby  is  seven- 
teen? 


ACT  I  27 

Mrs.  P.  [smilini/l .     Isn't  It  wonderful ! 

Harry.     We've  been  married  eighteen  years. 

Mrs.  P.  lsoftly'\.     Isn't  it  wonderful! 

Harry  [in  a  deep  voice].  And  I  nearly  lost 
you  seventeen  years  ago,  my  dear.  Very 
nearly.  You  gave  me  Effie  and  stood  very 
close  to  the  open  door.  Are  you  glad  you 
didn't  go  in  and  leave  us  both  alone? 

Mrs.  P.     Oh,  Harry! 

Harry  [with  emotion'].  Have  I  been  a  good 
man  to  you,  little  woman?  Have  I  left  any- 
thing undone  that  you'd  like  me  to  do?  Have 
I  been  even  half  grateful  enough  that  you 
stayed  ? 

Mrs.  P.  Dearest!  [Effie  comes  into  the 
garden,  slamming  the  gate.] 

Effie.  No  sign  of  a  cab.  Well,  after  all,  I 
don't  think  he  plays  golf  so  it  doesn't  matter. 

Mrs.  P.  [to  Harry].  You'll  try  and  have 
nothing  to  do  to-night,  won't  you?  If  you're 
not  here  I  don't  know  how  we  shall  amuse  the 
boy. 

Harry  [with  a  short  laugh].  It's  not  much 
use  trying.  I  promised  to  go  and  see  poor 
Mrs.  Lemmins.  It's  eight  months  to-day  since 
Mary  Ann  disappeared.  Poor  little  Mary  Ann 
with  the  angel  face  and  golden  hair.  And  Joe 
Judd  can't  last  much  longer.  All  I  can  give  the 
boy  is  an  hour  after  dinner  and  perhaps  we  can 


28     THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

get  a  pipe  together  before  we  go  to  bed, —  if  he 
comes.  [Collins  comes  to  the  gate.  He  grins 
excitedly.'] 

Collins.     Cab  at  door,  sir. 

Effie  [excitedlyl.     He  has  come,  then. 

Harry  [catching  the  contagion].  Ask  Mr. 
Graham  to  come  round  into  the  garden  and 
bring  his  luggage  through  this  way. 

Collins.  Right  you  are,  sir.  [He  salutes 
with  a  characteristic  touch  of  exaggeration. 
He  goes  of.] 

Effie.     I  wonder  what  he  is  like? 

Mrs.  P.  [all  in  a  fluster].  Hadn't  we  better 
leave  you  to  meet  him  alone? 

Harry.     Yes,  that's  a  good  idea. 

Mrs.  P.     Come  along,  dear. 

Effie.  I  shall  peer  out  of  the  window. 
Father,  I'll  bet  you  a  bob  he's  short  and  fat. 
[She  follows  Mrs.  P.  into  the  house,  all  alight.^ 

[Harry  finds  himself,  to  his  own  amusement,  just 
a  little  nervous.  The  words  of  the  letter  flash 
through  his  mind.  He  stands  irresolute  for  a 
moment  and  then,  with  a  desire  to  put  the  hoy 
at  his  ease  and  let  him  come  upon  a  man  who, 
although  a  clergyman,  is  a  sportsman,  takes  up 
a  mashie  that  is  standing  against  the  seat  and 
swings  it.  Archie  Graham  appears  at  gate. 
He  is  tall  and  slight  and  clean  shaven,  good- 


ACT  I  29 

looking  and  well-dressed.  He  wears  a  half 
sulky,  half  supercilious  expression  and  his  eyes 
are  suspicious.  There  are  one  or  two  curiously 
old  lines  round  his  mouth.  He  comes  down  a 
step  or  two  and  stands  watching  Harry  who 
pretends  not  to  see  him.  There  is  a  slight 
pause. "^ 

Archie.     Mr.  Pemberton? 

Harry  [looking  up].  Yes.  Are  you  Gra- 
ham? 

Archie  [touching  his  hat].     Please. 

Harry  [stretching  out  his  hand].  How  are 
you? 

Archie  [slightly  antagonistic].  Very  well, 
thanks. 

Harry  [eyeing  him  surreptitiously].  Sorry 
I  couldn't  meet  you  at  the  station. 

Archie.     Oh,  not  a  bit ! 

Harry.     You  chose  an  excellent  train. 

Archie.  Yes,  a  non-stopper.  I  thought  this 
place  was  further  away.  It's  not  so  far  off  the 
map  as  I  ...  I  mean.  .  .  . 

Harry  [with  a  laugh].  As  a  matter  of  fact 
it  is  off  the  map  although  we're  only  sixteen 
miles  from  Hyde  Park  Corner.  [He  swings 
the  mashie  in  an  interested  manner,  treating  the 
boy  almost  casually  as  though  his  arrival  was  a 
very  ordinary  affair.] 


30    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Archie  {watching  him  closely'\.  It's  rather 
pretty  here,  isn't  It?     A  little  flat  perhaps. 

Harry.  The  brickmaking,  orchard  district, 
you  know.  All  our  women  work  in  the  fields 
and  most  of  our  men  are  brickees  when  they 
condescend  to  work  at  all,  which  Isn't  often. 
And  curiously  enough  there  Is  a  rather  large 
Irish  contingent  round  the  green.  How's  your 
father  ? 

Archie.     He's  well  I  believe,  thanks. 

Harry.     You'll  have  tea,  won't  you  ? 

Archie.  No,  thanks.  I  had  tea  at  Padding- 
ton. 

Harry  [holding  out  case].     A  cigarette? 

Archie  [after  a  slight  hesitation].     Thanks. 

Harry.  I  don't  recommend  them  but  they 
are  not  more  poisonous  than  most. 

Archie  {looking  at  it  with  something  of 
patronage].     Oh,  this  is  a  pretty  safe  brand. 

Harry  {abruptly].     Sit  down. 

Archie.     Well,  I.  .  .  . 

Harry.     Yes?     {He  smiles  at  the  hoy.] 

Archie  {sitting].  Thank  you.  {He  is  ob- 
viously ill  at  ease  and  constrained.  He  fidgets 
with  his  fingers  and  continues  to  look  search- 
ingly  at  Harry  when  unobserved.] 

Harry.  What's  your  theory  as  to  the  length 
of  a  mashle? 


ACT  I  31 

Archie  [drawling'\.  I  dunno.  Don't  think 
I've  ever  thought  about  it. 

Harry.  I  mean  do  you  like  'em  short  or 
long,  large  faced  or  more  of  the  jigger  school? 

Archie.  Oh,  I  just  bought  one  and  I've 
stuck  to  it  ever  since.  They  called  it  a  mashie 
and  I  used  it  as  such. 

Harry  [with  a  laugh'\.  A  contented  mind, 
eh? 

Archie  [with  a  bitterness  so  horrible  and  full 
of  history  that  Harry  drops  the  mashie  and  eyes 
him  with  a  new  look'\.     Contented ! 

Harry.     What  have  you  been  reading  for? 

Archie  [a  little  humbly'].  I'm  afraid  I've  not 
been  reading,  sir. 

Harry.  Are  you  a  rich  man?  I  mean  are 
you  going  to  read  with  me  in  order  to  earn  a 
living  ? 

Archie.     Yes  —  that's  the  notion. 

Harry.  Good.  A  man  who  doesn't  have 
to  earn  his  bread  and  butter  misses  the  joy  of 
life.  You've  decided  what  you're  going  to  read 
for  now  I  take  it? 

Archie.     The  Bar. 

Harry.  Oh,  excellent.  I'll  look  out  all  my 
old  books.     Some  of  'em  will  be  useful. 

Archie  [looking  up].  Did  you  read  for  the 
bar,  sir? 


32    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Harry.  Yes.  Tremendously  hard.  I  was 
going  in  for  the  bar  and  politics  at  one  time. 

Archie.  What  made  you  chuck  it  and  go  into 
the  church  —  I  beg  your  pardon. 

Harry  [with  intense  solemnity'^.  If  ever  the 
time  comes  when  I  am  obliged  to  tell  anyone 
why  I  went  into  the  church,  Archibald  Graham, 
It  will  be  the  worst  day  in  my  life.  [Collins 
passes  through  with  a  shirt  case  on  his  shoul- 
der.'] 

Collins.     Shall  I  take  it  upstairs,  sir? 

Harry.  Ah,  your  baggage.  Yes,  upstairs, 
Collins.  Mr.  Graham's  room  is  my  old  dress- 
ing room.     [Collins  goes  into  house.] 

Archie.     I  hope  I'm  not.  .  .  . 

Harry.  Not  a  bit.  A  dressing  room  Is  a 
luxury.     Er  .  .  .  is  that  all  you've  brought? 

Archie  [quickly].  A  telegram  will  bring  the 
rest. 

Harry.     Shall  Collins  take  a  wire  at  once  ? 

Archie.     Well.  .  .  . 

Harry  [bluntly  but  kindly].  If  not,  my  dear 
fellow,  there's  a  fast  train  back  to  Paddington 
in  half  an  hour.  What  will  you  do?  Take  it 
or  send  a  wire? 

Archie  [after  a  distinct  pause  during  which  he 
looks  into  Harry's  eyes].     I'll  wire,  please. 

Harry      [quietly].      Thanks,      old      chap. 


ACT  I  33 

ITakes  out  a  pocket  book.l  Here's  a  form 
and  a  pencil.  \_He  puts  them  on  table.  The 
boy  writes.']  Don't  forget  to  ask  for  your  golf 
clubs  and  cricket  bag. 

Archie  [without  looking  up].     I  have. 

Harry.    Good.    [Collins  comes  into  garden.] 

Archie.     May  I.  .  .  . 

Harry.  Yes.  Collins,  just  go  down  to  the 
post  office,  will  you?  Ask  Mrs.  Wimley  to 
send  that  off  at  once. 

Collins.     Right  you  are,  sir. 

Archie.  Here's  the  money.  Don't  bother 
about  the  change, 

Collins  [saluting].  Right  you  are,  sir. 
[He  spits  on  the  coin.  There  is  a  drink  in  the 
offing.  You  almost  hear  it  going  into  the  glass. 
There  is  an  added  spring  in  his  walk  as  he  goes 

of-] 

Harry.  And  now  come  and  have  a  look  at 
your  room. 

Archie  [quickly  and  with  a  touch  of  agita- 
tion]. Would  it  put  you  out  if  we  stayed  here 
for  a  minute  ?     I  ...  I  want  to  speak  to  you. 

Harry.     Fire  away. 

Archie  [pausing  uncomfortably  and  pulling 
himself  up  to  an  unusual  proceeding].  Before 
I  go  into  your  house  I  want  to  lay  everything 
out  straight  with  you,  sir,  at  once. 


34    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Harry  [sitting  on  the  chair  below  doorl. 
Go  ahead,  old  fellow. 

Archie.  And  I'm  going  to  ask  you  to  an- 
swer one  or  two  questions  bluntly  If  you  don't 
mind,  without  any  attempt  to  spare  my  feelings. 

Harry  [with  a  smile'\.     Right. 

Archie  [bending  down  and  picking  up  a  sweet 
pea  and  fidgeting  with  it'\.  Was  I  packed  off 
to  you  by  the  Guvnor  as  a  waster? 

Harry.     Pretty  well  like  that. 

Archie.  He  sent  me  to  you  much  as  a  drunk- 
ard is  sent  to  a  rescue  home? 

Harry.     Much  in  the  same  way. 

Archie.  With  a  detailed  list  of  my  misdo- 
ings at  Eton  and  Oxford? 

Harry.     Pretty  detailed. 

Archie  [flinging  away  the  sweet  pea  and  turn- 
ing to  Harry  quickly].  That's  how  I  was  sent 
to  Eton  —  under  suspicion.  That's  how  I  went 
up  to  Oxford,  still  under  suspicion.  I  was  la- 
belled suspicious  goods.  I  knew  that  I  was 
watched  and  expected  to  break  out  into  some 
rottenness  I  It  spoilt  Eton  for  me  and  ruined 
my  chances  at  Oxford. 

Harry.     My  dear  fellow.  .  .  . 

Archie  [with  a  burst}.  I  don't  say  that  I'm 
not  rotten.  I  don't  say  that  I'm  not  a  mass  of 
detestable  characteristics,  but  the  one  sure  way 
of  bringing  these  things  to  the  top  was  to  sus- 


ACT  I  35 

pect  me.  I've  had  nothing  to  live  up  to  and 
I've  done  stinking  things  everywhere  out  of 
bitterness  and  anger.  I  want  you  to  know  this 
before  we  go  any  further.  I  want  you  to  know 
my  side  of  it  all,  and  I  want  to  ask  you  for 
God's  sake  not  to  begin  by  suspecting  me.  Do 
you? 

Harry  [rising  and  looking  at  the  boy  all 
over'].     No.      [He  holds  out  his  hand.] 

Archie  [seizing  it  and  crumpling  over  it]. 
Ah! 

Harry.  Now,  look  here,  Archie  Graham,  as 
we  are  in  a  sort  of  way  rubbing  noses  and  be- 
coming friends,  let  me  say  something  too.  I 
don't  know  your  father  personally.  From 
what  he's  done  for  the  country  he's  a  big  man, 
but  I  can  see  from  his  letter  that  he  doesn't 
understand  you. 

Archie  [brokenly].     No,  he  doesn't. 

Harry.  I  expect  he's  always  treated  you  as 
a  man  should  treat  a  man  and  not  as  a  man 
should  treat  a  boy.  He  began  by  believing,  no 
doubt,  that  you  had  no  sense  of  honour,  when 
he  ought  to  have  given  you  credit  for  possessing 
as  great  a  sense  of  honour  as  he  possesses  and 
put  you  on  It. 

Archie.     If  only  he  had. 

Harry.  And  as  to  your  horrible  misdeeds 
at  Eton  and  Oxford, —  my  dear  good  fellow^ 


36    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

when  and  where  is  a  man  to  commit  the  harm- 
less necessary  horrible  misdeeds  of  his  green 
youth  except  at  Eton  and  Oxford,  unless  it's  at 
Charterhouse  and  Cambridge.  Your  father 
and  those  asses  at  Eton  and  Oxford,  all  of  them 
book  stuffed,  theorising  apes  only  fitted  to  make 
rules  for  the  conduct  of  dead  things,  have  made 
you  self-conscious,  eh?     Well,  all  that's  over. 

Archie  [looking  up  wistfully^.     Over? 

Harry.     Yes,  over  and  done  with. 

Archie.     How? 

Harry.  You  and  I  are  brothers,  just  two 
ordinary  good  sorts,  ready  to  break  out  and  go 
arm  in  arm  with  nature  to  the  gutter,  but  for 
the  sympathy  of  each  other, —  and  of  that  other 
Brother  of  ours.  I'm  going  to  give  you  all  the 
trust  and  sympathy  that  I've  got  and  you're  go- 
ing to  do  the  same  by  me.  When  we  stand  on 
our  hind  legs  and  have  the  infernal  bumptious- 
ness to  say  that  we  feel  no  need  for  sympathy 
and  help,  providence,  always  on  the  lookout  for 
the  braggart,  will  put  in  one  straight  from  the 
shoulder  and  hit  us  very  hard.  Your  ciga- 
rette's out.     Have  another. 

Archie.  No,  thanks  [quickly'].  May  I  tell 
you  one  other  thing  ? 

Harry.     If  you  feel  you  must. 

Archie.  I  think  you  ought  to  know  that  i 
was  sent  down  from  Oxford. 


ACT  I  37 

Harry.  Loads  of  men  are  sent  down  who 
don't  deserve  such  drastic  treatment. 

Archie.     I  did  deserve  it,  though. 

Harry.     Glad  to  hear  it. 

Archie  [surprised'].     Glad? 

Harry.  Yes,  of  course.  If  a  man  knows 
that  he  deserves  punishment,  he  doesn't  grum- 
ble when  he  gets  it  and  ten  to  one  it's  a  good 
thing  for  him.  Punishment  only  has  a  bad  ef- 
fect on  the  man  who  doesn't  deserve  it,  and 
gets  it.  If  he's  not  a  pretty  strong  fellow  he 
either  develops  into  a  criminal  or  deteriorates 
into  a  sloppy  creature  with  a  perpetual  griev- 
ance. 

Archie.  I  want  to  start  fair  with  you,  sir. 
I  can't  even  dream  of  staying  under  your  roof 
until  you  know  exactly  what  I  did.  I  don't 
want  to  remain  here  under  false  pretences. 

Harry.  I'm  not  going  to  know.  I'm  not 
your  judge,  my  dear  chap.  I'm  your  friend 
and  I  believe  in  you.  Forget  the  incident. 
You've  had  your  knockout  blow  and  you're  on 
your  feet  again.  The  thing's  over.  Now 
then,  I'll  toss  you  which  of  us  has  the  bath. 

Cookie  [at  door'].     Telephone! 

Harry.  Right.  [He  lays  his  hand  on  the 
hoy's  shoulder  for  a  moment  and  goes  quickly 
into  the  house.  Archie  goes  over  to  the  tree- 
seat.     All  his  movements  are  now  boyish  and 


38     THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

there  is  a  sort  of  eagerness  and  surprise  in  all 
his  lines  of  body.'\ 

Cookie  [full  of  curiosity  to  inspect  the 
"  swell "  and  obviously  making  an  excuse  to 
speak  to  him'].  How  do  you  like  potatoes? 
Plain  boiled  or  sorty? 

Archie  [with  a  little  laugh].  Oh,  anyhow, 
thanks. 

Cookie.  That's  no  answer.  Being  a  swell 
I  should  have  thought  you  liked  'em  sorty. 

Archie  [amused].     Plain  boiled. 

Cookie.  I  hoped  you'd 'say  that.  It's  less 
trouble.  [She  goes  nearer.]  Do  you  know 
you've  brought  no  pyjamas? 

Archie.  I've  just  wired  for  my  things.  I 
forgot  them, —  that  is  I  didn't  bring  them. 

Cookie.     I  shall  like  you. 

Archie.     Thanks  very  much. 

Cookie.  Perhaps  I'd  better  introduce  my- 
self. Miss  Ethel  Meadows,  commonly  called 
Cookie  by  her  friends. 

Archie.  How  do  you  do,  Cookie?  [He 
holds  out  his  hand.] 

Cookie  [enthusiastically].  Oh,  you  are  all 
right,  you  are.  [Shakes.]  I  gathered  you 
were  a  bit  of  a  terror. 

Archie  [drily].  My  reputation  generally 
precedes  me. 

Cookie.     Let  me  give  you  a  tip.     There's  a 


ACT  I  39 

dog  called  Bill  who  lives  here.  If  you  want 
to  be  on  good  terms  with  me  don't  let  'im  sleep 
on  your  bed. 

Archie.     It's  a  bargain.     Anything  else? 

Cookie.  No,  that's  all.  Oh,  yes,  there  is 
one  other  thing.  If  you  read  In  bed  at 
nights,  don't  stick  the  candle  on  your  chest. 
I  don't  mind  how  I  die  so  long  as  it  Isn't  by 
fire. 

Archie.     Consider  it  settled. 

Cookie.  Here,  you're  a  bit  of  an  angel. 
{She  goes  of  in  a  sort  of  a  pea-hen  laugh.'] 

Archie.  Glad  you  think  so.  [Enter  Mrs. 
Pemberton.     Cookie  goes  to  her  eagerly.] 

Cookie  [in  a  stage  whisper].  I've  put  him 
through  'is  paces,  mum,  and  'e's  all  right. 

Mrs.  P.     Ssh !     Cookie. 

Cookie.  Plain  boiled,  eh?  Well,  you  shall 
'ave  'em.  [She  nods  to  Archie  and  goes  in. 
Her  curious  shrill  laugh  hangs  on  the  air.] 

Mrs.  P.     How  do  you  do? 

Archie  [coming  forward  and  taking  her 
hand].     How  do  you  do? 

Mrs.  P.     I'm  very  glad  you've  come. 

Archie  [boyishly].     So  am  I. 

Mrs.  P.  I'm  afraid  your  room's  rather 
small. 

Archie.  I  don't  mind  how  small  my  room  is. 
It's  in  your  house. 


40    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Mrs.  P.  But  you're  going  to  do  your  work 
in  my  husband's  den. 

Archie  [eagerly'].     Am  I  really? 

Mrs.  P.  [apologising'].  I  won't  apologise 
for  Cookie. 

Archie.     Oh,  please  don't.     She's  Immense. 

Mrs.  P.  She's  been  with  us  twenty  years 
and  perhaps  she  takes  a  little  advantage  of  it. 
Is  your  father  quite  well? 

Archie.     I  think  so,  thanks. 

Mrs.  P,     And  your  mother? 

Archie  [simply].  I  haven't  got  a  mother. 
She  died  when  I  was  born. 

Mrs.  P.     Oh,  I'm  sorry. 

Archie.  So  am  I.  I've  missed  her  .  .  . 
badly. 

Mrs.  P.  The  golf  links  Is  only  a  stone's 
throw  from  here. 

Archie.     Oh,  that's  ripping.     Do  you  play? 

Mrs.  P.  No,  but  my  husband  does, —  when 
he  has  time. 

Archie.     I  don't  suppose  that's  very  often. 

Mrs.  P.     No,  it  Isn't. 

Cookie  [at  door].  May  I  speak  to  you  a 
moment,  mum? 

Mrs.  P.  Certainly,  Cookie.  [To  Archie.] 
Will  you  excuse  me  ? 

Archie.  Oh,  please.  [Mrs.  Pemherton 
drops  a  note  hook.     Archie  picks  it  up,  gives 


ACT  I  41 

it  to  her,  bends  over  her  hand  and  kisses  it.'\ 

Mrs.  P.     Oh,  thank  you.      [She  turns  slowly 

and  goes  in  with  a  little  smile  on  her  face.'\ 

[Archie  stands  quite  still  for  a  moment,  where 
he  is,  facing  audience.  After  a  moment 
he  takes  of  his  hat  and  opens  his  arms, 
breathing  in  the  air.  His  whole  face  is 
changed.  He  looks  younger  and  con- 
tented.    Effie  peeps  round  the  gate.'] 

Archie  [involuntarily].  The  Guvnor  shall 
see.  I've  got  my  chance.  .  .  .  I've  got 
my  chance  at  last.  [Effie  saunters  in,  trying 
to  appear  as  though  she  had  known  hun- 
dreds of  men  in  her  time  and  leaning  against 
table.] 

Archie  [turning].  I  beg  your  pardon.  I'm 
Graham. 

Effie  [looking  at  him  and  smiling].     I  know. 

Archie.     How  do  you  do? 

Effie.  I'm  very  well,  thank  you.  What's 
your  handicap  ? 

Archie.  A  bad  eight.  I  suppose  you're  aw- 
fully good  ? 

Effie.  Oh,  I'm  pretty  useful, —  for  a  woman. 
[She  breaks  suddenly  into  a  fit  of  nervousness 
and  shyness.  Archie  stands  watching  her.] 
Have  you  met  Bill? 

Archie.     Yes.     He  introduced  himself  to  me 


42    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

outside.  IVe  met  Cookie,  too,  and  Mrs.  Pem- 
berton.  Are  you,  er  .  .  .  are  you  the  Vicar's 
sister  ? 

Effie  [laughingl.  No,  I'm  his  pal  —  I  mean 
his  daughter. 

Archie.  You  couldn't  be  one  without  the 
other. 

Effie  {leaning  towards  him  eagerly^.  Then 
you  aren't  going  back  within  twelve  hours  as 
your  father  said  you.  .  .  . 

Archie  [sharply'\.     Did  my  father  say  that? 

Effie.     I'm  so  sorry.     It  slipped  out. 

Archie.  It  doesn't  matter.  I  suppose  my 
father  wrote  that  if  I  didn't  cotton  on  to  the 
Vicar,  I  should  chuck  East  Brenton. 

Effie.     Yes. 

Archie.  Um!  And  that's  what  I  should 
have  done. 

Effie.     Would  you  really  ? 

Archie.  Like  a  shot.  But  it  so  happens 
that  I  like  your  father  a  million  times  better 
already  than  any  man  I've  ever  met,  and  that's 
only  a  tenth  part  of  how  I'm  going  to  like  him. 

Effie.     I  knew  you  would  if  you  came. 

Archie.  I'd  have  to  be  deaf  and  blind  not 
to.  I  wish  I'd  known  him  since  the  beginning 
of  the  world.  [He  laughs  frankly.']  That's 
my  egotistical  way  of  saying  since  I  was  born. 

Effie.     I  know. 


ACT  I  43 

Archie  [going  nearer  to  her  and  losing  self- 
consciousness'].  I'm  going  to  mug  like  blazes 
with  your  father,  to  make  up  for  lost  time. 
Are  you  working? 

Effie.  No,  I  never  do  anything, —  at  least 
nothing  very  much.  Mother's  so  busy  that  I 
look  after  the  house  and  make  my  frocks  and 
practise  the  piano  and  every  now  and  then, 
when  I  can't  help  myself,  I  write  a  story  about 
some  of  the  dreadful  things  of  life. 

Archie  [astonished].  Good  Lord!  What 
do  you  know  about  the  dreadful  things  of  life? 

Effie.     Nothing.     So  I  tear  my  stories  up. 

Archie.  You  seem  to  have  so  much  to  do, 
and  I'm  going  to  have  so  much  to  do,  that  it 
doesn't  look  much  like  golf  for  either  of  us. 

Effie.     Before  breakfast  and  before  dinner. 

Archie  [with  a  laugh].  What  time's  break- 
fast? 

Effie.     Eight  o'clock. 

Archie.  By  Jove !  Means  getting  up  at  six 
then. 

Effie.     Can't  you  ? 

Archie.  I'd  get  up  at  five  to  play  golf  with 
you. 

Effie.  I'll  introduce  you  to  our  links  to-mor- 
row. 

Archie.  Right.  Thanks  most  awfully. 
[Enter  Harry  from  house.] 


44    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Harry.     Effie  —  Archie.     Archie  —  Effie. 

Archie.     We've  met. 

Cookie  [putting  her  head  out  of  door'\. 
Dinner  in  five  minutes. 

Harry.     Mr.  Archibald  Graham  —  Cookie. 

Archie.     We've  met  too. 

Cookie  [with  a  loud  chuckle'\.  Well  I 
never  I 

Harry.  Well,  youVe  not  wasted  much  time, 
have  you? 

Archie.  Not  a  second.  [Enter  Mrs.  Pern- 
herton  from  house.'] 

Harry.  Am  I  to  take  it  that  you've 
chummed  up  to  my  wife  as  well  as  to  every 
other  member  of  this  house? 

Archie.     Yes,  please. 

Mrs.  P.  [taking  his  arm].  Let  me  show  you 
your  room. 

Archie.  Thanks.  Queen  Ann,  isn't  it  ?  A 
great  period.  And  by  Jove,  what  yews. 
[They  go  in  together.] 

Harry  [to  Effie  eagerly].  Well,  what  do 
you  think  about  him  ? 

Effie.  I've  not  had  time  to  think  about  him 
yet,  darling. 

Harry.  But  do  you  think  you'll  like  him 
when  you  have  got  time  to  think  about  him? 

Effie.  I  didn't  want  any  time  to  think  about 
that.     I  liked  him  at  once. 


ACT  I  45 

Harry.  Good.  That's  exactly  how  he  af- 
fected me.      [^The  dinner  gong  goes.'] 

Efjie.  The  first  gong.  And  I  haven*t 
washed.  [Runs  to  door  and  turns.']  Do 
come,  darling.     You  must  be  starving. 

Harry  [putting  his  arm  round  her].  I  can't, 
my  baby  girl. 

Effie  [drawing  away  and  speaking  with  a  note 
of  awful  disappointment].  Father!  You're 
.  .  .  you're  surely  not  going  away  to-night? 

Harry.  I'm  very  sorry,  but  I  must.  We'll 
keep  the  birthday  to-morrow  night. 

Effie  [hysterically].  To-morrow,  to-mor- 
row! What's  the  good  of  to-morrow.  It's 
to-day.  What's  the  use  of  a  birthday  to  me 
without  you  for  a  minute.  I  wish  I'd  never 
had  a  birthday.  I'm  not  wanted.  No  one 
wants  me.  I'm  no  use.  I'm  only  in  the  way. 
Nothing  is  right.  I  wish  I'd  never,  never  been 
born.      [She  bursts  into  sobbing.] 

Harry  [startled,  eyeing  her  in  wonder].  Ef- 
fie! ..  .  What  are  you  saying?  [He  puts  his 
arm  round  her  tenderly.]  Nothing  is  right,  lit- 
tle girl?  I  always  thought  that  you  and  I  were 
bosom  friends  with  no  secrets  from  each  other. 
It  seems  that  you  have  hidden  something  from 
me  if  nothing  is  right. 

Effie.  I  didn't  mean  that.  I  could  bite  my 
tongue  off  for  saying  that.     I'm  a  discontented 


46    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

beast.  Don't  worry  about  me.  Only  I've  been 
longing  all  day  to  have  you  for  just  one  evening 
in  the  year,  my  own  evening,  darling.  Don't 
go. 

Harry.  I  must,  dearest.  There  is  work  for 
me  to  do. 

Efjie.     What  work? 

Harry.  My  work,  which  must  come  before 
everything  else,  even  when  it  concerns  those  I 
love  best  in  the  world.  Old  Joe  Judd  is  dy- 
ing. He  needs  me.  [Efjie' s  hands  go  up  to 
her  mouth.  She  stands  awed  and  quiet.']  Do 
you  see?  .  .  .  Good  night,  my  baby.  {He 
kisses  her  and  turns  up.]  Bill,  Bill !  [He 
goes  of  briskly  calling  for  the  dog.] 


[Curtain.] 


ACT  II 

The  Scene  is  laid  in  Harry  Pemberton's  study. 
It  is  a  large  room,  matchboarded  up  to 
within  three  feet  of  the  ceiling.  At  the 
top  of  matchb  oar  ding  there  is  a  shelf 
which  runs  all  round  the  room.  This  is 
lined  with  hooks  of  all  sizes  and  colours, 
except  at  C.  back  where  there  is  a  semi- 
circular built  out  window.  The  window 
seat  is  covered  with  cushions.  The  walls 
are  closely  hung  with  college  groups 
framed.  There  is  a  door  down  R.  An 
old  stone  fireplace  with  the  fire  on  the 
hearth  L.C.  The  mantelboard  is  strewn 
with  pipes  and  silver  cups.  Above  it  are 
hung  a  number  of  small  frames  in  which 
there  are  photos  of  the  men  at  Oxford  in 
Harry's  time.  On  the  right  of  window 
there  is  a  village-made  writing  desk.  It 
has  three  drawers  on  each  side  of  it  and  a 
shelf  running  at  the  back.  It  is  littered 
with  books,  papers,  tobacco  tins,  etc.  On 
the  L.  of  window  there  is  a  lacobean  chest 
on  the  top  of  which  stands  a  stack  of 
drawers,  labelled.  In  other  available 
spaces  there  are  golf  clubs,  a  sporting  rifle 
47 


48    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

or  two,  and  several  tennis  racquets.  Ai 
somewhat  shabby  turkey  carpet  covers  the 
floor,  on  the  middle  of  which  there  is  a 
small  table.  On  this  there  is  a  large  oil 
lamp  and  some  rather  nice  books.  There 
are  comfortable  chairs  round  the  fireplace 
and  elsewhere. 
\When  curtain  rises,  Archie  is  discovered  sit- 
ting on  window  seat  smoking  a  pipe,  read- 
ing and  making  notes.  He  is  obviously 
absorbed  in  his  work.  Harry  is  seated  at 
his  desk  with  his  hack  to  audience  writing 
hard.  There  is  a  silence  for  a  moment 
after  the  curtain  has  risen.  Cookie  enters. 
She  leaves  the  door  open  and  there  drifts 
into  the  room  the  sound  of  a  piano  in  the 
distance  and  a  young  girl's  voice  singing. 
Archie  looks  up.  He  listens  with  a  smile 
on  his  face.l 

Cookie.  Work,  work,  work!  Always  at 
work.     'Pon  my  soul  I  never  knew  such  a  lot. 

Harry  [without  looking  up'].  What  is  it, 
Cookie,  what  Is  it? 

Cookie.  All  right  then.  It's  a  letter 
brought  by  a  lad  from  the  Canal.  By  the  writ- 
ing I  should  say  it's  from  Mrs.  Lemmins.  Also 
by  the  whiff. 

Harry    [turning   round    quickly}.     Let    me 


ACT  II  49 

have  it,  Cookie.  [He  opens  it  and  reads 
eagerly.l 

Cookie  [looking  towards  Archie'\.  You 
ain't  playin'  your  usual  game  of  tennis  to-night 
then,  Mr.  Archie? 

Archie.  No,  not  to-night.  The  grass  is  too 
wet.     Skidding  cuts  it  up. 

Harry.  You're  perfectly  right,  it  is  from 
Mrs.  Lemmins.  [He  rises  excitedly.^  Mary 
Ann  has  come  home  again. 

Cookie.     You  don't  say  so. 

Harry.     At  last ! 

Cookie.  About  time,  too.  Eight  months 
away  and  never  a  word.  I  never  did  trust  yer 
soft  spoken,  angel- faced,  sugar-in-the-mouth 
girls  myself. 

Harry  [turning  to  Cookie  rather  sharply'^. 
You  will  kindly  tell  the  lad  that  I  will  see  Mrs. 
Lemmins  as  soon  as  she  can  come. 

Cookie.  Very  good,  sir.  [She  turns  and  as 
she  goes  out  she  makes  a  little  face  at  Archie. 
When  door  is  shut  no  sound  of  the  piano  can 
he  heard.l 

Harry  [pacing  the  room].  Home  at  last! 
Little  Mary  Ann.  What  in  Heaven's  name  has 
she  been  doing?  I'd  give  a  year  of  my  life  to 
know  that  she's  safe. 

Archie  [looking  up.  The  evening  sun  is  on 
his  sun-tanned  face.l^     Who  is  Mary  Ann? 


50    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Harry  [in  a  voice  that  quivers  a  little'].  The 
daughter,  the  only  daughter  of  a  very  good 
body  who  works  the  Albert  Edward  barge  on 
the  canal.  She  was  born  on  the  same  night  as 
Effie.  She  was  the  best  and  most  flower-like 
little  girl  in  the  school.  She  disappeared  just 
before  Christmas.  Police  and  missionaries 
have  been  unable  to  find  her.  Thank  God  she's 
come  back. 

Archie  [warmly,  but  with  a  slight  hesitation]. 
I  believe  you're  a  father  to  everybody  in  this 
village,  sir. 

Harry  [uns  elf -consciously  and  without  any  of 
the  shame  of  insularity].  My  dear  fellow,  I'm 
a  parson.  I  try  to  be  the  servant  of  the  Uni- 
versal Father.  His  children  are  my  children, 
.  .  .  How  are  you  getting  on  ? 

Archie.  Better.  I  really  do  think  that  I'm 
getting  back  at  last  something  of  the  habit  of 
work. 

Harry  [at  work  again  and  smoking  hard]. 
Don't  try  and  fly  before  you  can  walk.  You've 
only  been  at  it  three  weeks  you  know.  Effie 
tells  me  that  you  can  give  her  a  stroke  every 
morning  now.  Your  golf  is  going  strong  at 
any  rate.     She's  not  easy  to  beat. 

Archie  [warmly].  She  takes  a  beating  like  a 
man.  Er  .  .  .  I  had  a  letter  from  the  gov'nor 
this  morning,  sir. 


ACT  II  51 

Harry.     Oh,  what  did  he  say? 

Archie.  It  was  rather  a  nice  letter.  He 
seemed  a  bit  surprised  that  my  address  is  still 
East  Brenton. 

Harry  {with  a  laugh~\.  Are  you  never  going 
to  town  again  ? 

Archie.  Not  if  I  can  help  it.  I  hate  the 
place. 

Harry.  Do  you?  I  don't.  When  I  went 
up  to  the  Middlesex  Hospital  the  other  day  to 
see  how  one  of  my  men  was  getting  on  who  had 
had  an  operation,  I  missed  the  train  at  Pad- 
dington  and  had  to  wait  half  an  hour.  The 
noise  and  bustle  of  the  station  excited  me.  I 
felt  as  though  I'd  had  a  week's  holiday  in  some 
foreign  place. 

Archie.     You  never  go  to  London,  do  you  ? 

Harry.  I've  too  much  to  do.  Oh,  by  the 
way,  I've  been  fitting  out  a  gymnasium  for  the 
elder  boys.  I  stand  in  need  of  an  instructor. 
[He  looks  up,  whimsically  -I     Er  .  .  . 

Archie  [eagerly'\.     Oh,  by  Jove,  may  I  .  .  . 

Harry  [with  a  smile'].     Will  you? 

Archie  [rising'].  I'd  give  my  ears  to  help 
you  in  some  way  or  other. 

Harry.     Thanks. 

Archie.  Don't  thank  me.  /  have  to  thank 
you.  I  don't  think  you  quite  know  what  you're 
doing  for  me.     I  feel  —  human  here. 


52    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Harry.  Impart  some  of  your  feeling  to 
these  slouching  lads,  old  chap.  Help  me  to 
keep  them  out  of  the  public  house.  It's  not 
easy.     \_Enter  Cookie.'] 

Cookie.  I  can't  'elp  myself,  but  that  Mrs. 
Watkins  is  'ere  again.     It's  'er  sorf  this  time. 

Harry  {wheeling  round].  What  about  her 
son? 

Cookie.  He's  caught  his  feet  in  the  ma- 
chinery of  the  mill.  .  .  . 

Harry  [going  quickly  to  door].  Oh,  good 
heavens  I     {Exit.] 

Cookie.  They  say  there's  no  rest  for  the 
wicked.     How  about  the  good? 

Archie.  Yes,  by  Jove !  Isn't  he  .  .  .  isn't 
he  .  .  . 

Cookie.  Isn't  he  just!  .  .  .  Now  then,  now 
then,  no  slackin'.     Thought  you  was  at  work? 

Archie  {with  a  laugh].  Good  for  you, 
Cookie.     May  I  have  a  box  of  matches? 

Cookie.  What — another?  I  believe  you 
eat  'em.  Well,  here  you  are.  {She  delves 
into  her  pocket  and  brings  out  a  box.]  You'll 
ruin  us  if  you  go  on  like  this.  And  I  don't 
know  whether  you  know  it,  but  you  eat  enough 
for  three. 

Archie  {with  comic  seriousness].  Do  I?  I 
must  watch  It. 

Cookie.     Oh,   go   on.     I   was   only   puUIn' 


ACT  II  53 

your  leg.  And  get  back  to  your  books  other- 
wise there'll  be  a  scandal  in  the  village.  [She 
breaks  into  a  cackle  of  laughter  and  goes  of. 
Archie  returns  to  his  seat  and  his  books.  The 
light  comes  golden  on  the  back  cloth  which 
shows  a  charming  corner  of  the  garden.  Effie 
appears  at  window.] 

Effie.     Hello ! 

Archie.     Hello ! 

Effie.     Still  at  it? 

Archie.  Apparently.  .  .  .  What  were  you 
singing? 

Effie.     I  dunno.     Any  old  thing. 

Archie.  I  like  those  old  things  —  when  you 
sing  'em. 

Effie.  I'm  not  going  to  disturb  you,  but  I'm 
coming  in  and  I'm  going  to  sit  here.  [She 
climbs  into  the  window  and  sits  on  other  end  of 
window  seat.  Archie  laughs.']  What's  the 
matter?     What  are  you  laughing  at? 

Archie.  The  mere  notion  of  your  sitting 
there  not  disturbing  me  would  make  Homer 
laugh. 

Effie  [touchily].  I  never  met  the  gentleman. 
I  don't  care  whether  he  laughs  or  not.  Because 
he  would  imitate  a  hyena  there's  no  reason  why 
you  should.  I'll  go.  [She  gets  up  abruptly 
and  walks  to  door.] 

Archie  [springing  up  and  chucking  his  book 


54    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

awayl.  Effie  .  .  .  Effie.  [He  rushes  to  door 
and  puts  his  hack  against  it.'\  For  the  Lord's 
sake  don't  go. 

Effie.  I  disturb  your  work.  Let  me  pass, 
please.      [Coldly.~\ 

Archie  [hotly'\.  You  do  disturb  my  work. 
I  want  you  to  disturb  my  work.  I  can  work 
till  I'm  sixty  but  I  shan't  always  be  able  to  see 
you  and  hear  your  voice.  [Gets  hopelessly 
self-conscious  and  hitches  his  shoulders.']  Do 
come  and  sit  down.  [Effie  wavers.  The 
hoy  continues  eloquently.]  I've  been  mugging 
the  whole  blessed  afternoon.  I've  put  in 
two  more  hours  to-day  than  any  other  day 
since  I've  been  here  and  in  any  case  we 
should  have  been  playing  tennis  but  for  the 
rain. 

Effie  [with  a  sudden  smile].  Very  well. 
I'll  forgive  Mr.  Homer.  [5^^  takes  a  skip  and 
a  jump  to  the  window  and  sits  swinging  her 
legs.] 

Archie  [following  her].  I'm  getting  fright- 
fully keen  on  this  stuff.  The  only  thing  is  I'm 
hopelessly  behind  with  it  all.  I  ought  to  have 
been  doing  this  two  years  ago. 

Effie  [airily].     No  grumbles. 

Archie.  I'm  not  grumbling.  I'm  getting 
fat  with  content.     I  say  I 

Efjie.     What? 


ACT  II  55 

Archie.  I  had  a  ripping  letter  from  the 
guv'nor  this  morning.     He  is  a  corker. 

Efjie  [astonished^.  I  thought  you  didn't  like 
him. 

Archie.     Why  ? 

EfJie.  Well,  one  doesn't  generally  like  a 
beast,  does  one  ? 

Archie.  But  he's  not  a  beast.  He's  one  of 
the  best.  It  was  as  much  my  fault  as  his  that 
we  didn't  pull  together.  After  all  it's  hopeless 
to  expect  a  man  to  understand  a  son  when  he 
hasn't  got  a  wife  to  supply  the  key.  I  shall 
look  him  up  soon.  [He  looks  frightfully 
pleased  at  his  academic  bombast.'] 

EfJie  [quickly].  When?  Do  you  mean  go 
to  London? 

Archie.  Yes.  In  about  —  six  months  from 
now.      [He  grins  at  her.] 

Effie  [relieved].  Oh,  I  thought  you  meant 
at  once.  Awful  rot  not  getting  any  tennis  to- 
night. 

Archie.     Now  you're  grumbling. 

Effie.  No,  I'm  not.  I  haven't  grumbled 
for  three  weeks. 

Archie.     Why  three  weeks? 

Effie.  I  dunno.  But  I  know  it's  three 
weeks  because  the  last  time  I  grumbled  it  was 
on  my  birthday  and  everything  has  been  so  aw- 
fully different  since  then. 


S6    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Archie  \^eagerly'\.     Has  it?     Why? 

Efjie  [simply^.  I  absolutely  don't  know.  I 
seem  to  have  had  more  to  do,  more  to  think 
about,  more  to  be  interested  in —  {Suddenly 
she  begins  to  laugh.'\ 

Archie.     What's  up? 

Effie.     I  am  a  fool  I 

Archie.     Why  ? 

Effie.     I  do  know.     It's  you. 

Archie  [bending  forward].     Me? 

Effie.  Yes,  you.  Of  course  it's  you.  I've 
not  been  lonely  since  you  came.  We've  jawed 
and  fought  the  most  fearful  battles  at  golf  and 
tennis  and  all  the  time  you've  been  working, 
I've  been  working. 

Archie.     What  at  ? 

Eff^e.     The  Law  Prelim. 

Archie.     What! 

Effie  [looking  at  hint].  I'm  just  as  keen  on 
your  getting  through  your  exams  as  you  are,  so 
in  a  sort  of  way  I  am  behind  your  books  with 
you. 

Archie.    Ah !    Now  I  see.     [Enter  Cookie.] 

Cookie  [excitedly].     A  wire  for  you. 

Archie  [springing  up].     For  me? 

Effie.  A  wire?  [//  might  almost  he  a 
bombshell.] 

Cookie.     Well,   it's  got  Graham  on  It.     I 


ACT  II  57 

hate  telegrams.  Having  no  postmark  you 
can't  make  a  guess  at  who  they're  from. 

Archie  [taking  it,  looking  at  it  anxiously'\.  I 
hope  to  Heaven  nothing's  happened  to  the 
guv'nor.     [He  opens  it.'\ 

Effie.     Well? 

Cookie.  For  goodness'  sake  don't  say  it's 
bad  news.  What  with  Mrs.  Lemmins  and 
young  Watkins  I'm  fairly  jumpy. 

Archie.  By  Jove,  It's  from  old  Winstanley. 
Great  work!  He's  home.  [He  reads.~\ 
"  On  leave,  lunch  to-morrow  Cavalry  Club,  one 
thirt}'.  Dine  Carlton,  do  show,  Winstanley, 
15,  Bury  Street."     Reply  paid. 

Cookie.     Sounds  like  a  bust. 

Archie  [laughing'].  Bust  it  is.  [He  goes  to 
desk  and  writes  on  form.']  "  Righto,  Gra- 
ham."    There  you  are.  Cookie. 

Cookie  [taking  it  and  looking  at  him  point- 
edly]. I  didn't  think  you'd  last  much  longer. 
[Exit.] 

Archie  [in  higL  spirits].  Old  Wyn  by  Jove  I 
Haven't  seen  him  since  he  passed  out  of  Sand- 
hurst. He's  been  In  India  with  his  regiment. 
I  believe  they  do  one  deuced  well  at  the  Cavalry 
Club.  Is  there  a  train  about  nine  to-morrow 
morning? 

Efjie  [who  has  been  standing  holt  upright.] 
I  don't  know.     I'm  not  a  time  table. 


58     THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Archie  [noticing  her  manner'].  Oh,  look 
here.     I'll  scratch  it  if  you  like. 

Effie  [with  a  very  high  head  and  an  almighty 
scorn'].  Oh,  please  don't.  After  all,  Mr. 
Winstanley  is  your  friend.  You  only  cram 
with  us. 

Archie.  What  rot!  [He  goes  to  door  call- 
ing.]    Cookie !     Cookie  I 

Effie  [springing  up].     No.     Let  it  go. 

Archie.     Yes,  but  if  .  .  . 

Effie  [suddenly  putting  her  hand  on  his  arm]. 
How  long  will  you  be  away? 

Archie.  One  day.  I  ought  to  go  up  for 
other  reasons  too.  I  must  get  some  more  ties 
and  socks. 

Effte  [going  to  chair  above  fireplace  and  sit- 
ting on  the  arm].  Ties  and  socks!  You've 
got  hundreds.  I  don't  believe  you  ever  wear 
the  same  twice. 

Archie  [tapping  her  on  the  shoulder  to  en- 
force attention  to  his  so-called  epigram].  You 
should  never  rot  a  man's  innocent  pleasures. 
The  very  moment  a  really  decent  sort  loses  in- 
terest in  ties  and  socks,  he  has  become  morbid 
or  has  committed  a  felony.  [He  is  mighty 
pleased  with  this.  It  is  quite  Bullingdon  Club 
form.] 

Effie.     Where's  the  Cavalry  Club? 

Archie.     In  Piccadilly. 


ACT  II  59 

Effie.     What  time  will  dinner  be  over? 

Archie.     About  eight  o'clock. 

Effie  [eagerly'].  Then  you  can  catch  the 
eight  thirty  and  we  can  go  for  a  walk  before 
bed. 

Archie.  I  should  love  it,  but  the  thing  is, 
Winstanley  talks  of  a  show. 

Effie.     What  is  a  show? 

Archie.  The  Empire,  I  suppose,  or  the  Al- 
hambra.  [Sees  another  chance.]  A  soldier 
never  goes  to  the  theatre.     It's  too  childish. 

Effie.     Then  when  will  you  be  down  ? 

Archie.     The  last  train  I'm  afraid. 

Effie  [rising  as  though  faced  with  an  awful 
disaster].  The  last  train!  Then  I  shan't  see 
you  again  until  .  .  .  when? 

Archie.  Seven  o'clock  the  day  after  to-mor- 
row. We'll  play  our  usual  eight  holes  before 
breakfast.  What  are  you  going  to  do  to-mor- 
row? 

Effie  [like  a  kid].     Be  beastly  lonely. 

Archie  [uncomfortable  and  yet  unaccount- 
ably pleased].  Why?  I  should  have  been 
working  all  the  morning  and  all  the  evening. 

Effie.  Yes,  but  I  should  have  known  that 
you  were  in  the  house.  [She  suddenly  puts  her 
arms  round  him  passionately.]  Don't  go,  I 
can't  let  you  go,  Archie ! 

Archie    [taking    her   arms   away,    quickly]. 


6o    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Don't,  for  God's  sake !  ^Turns  away  and  goes 
to  window  seat,  leaving  Effie  standing  startled. 
He  looks  hot  and  his  hand  shakes.  Enter 
Harry.'\ 

Harry  \_with  great  feeling^.  Such  a  good 
chap  I  Such  an  excellent  fellow.  The  left  leg 
will  have  to  be  amputated  above  the  knee. 
[Goes  to  his  desk.'\  What  a  lesson  in  pluck  I 
The  first  thing  he  said  was  "  Can  I  play  cricket 
with  a  wooden  leg?"  [Archie  and  Effie  re- 
main silent.  Effie  is  standing  where  Archie  left 
her  with  the  same  air  of  startled  wonder. 
Archie  has  caught  up  one  of  his  hooks  and  is 
hunting  through  it.     Enter  Cookie.'] 

Cookie.  Fred  has  sent  off  the  telegram  to 
the  'orspital,  sir. 

Harry.  That's  good.  If  Watkins  needs 
me  I  shall  go  up  with  him  to  the  hospital  to- 
night and  sleep  in  London,  so  just  have  my  bag 
packed  in  case. 

Cookie  [with  a  burst].  He  mustn't  need 
you.     Good  Lord,  'aven't  you  got  enough  .  .  . 

Harry  [gently].     Please,  Cookie. 

Cookie  [going  out].  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear! 
What  with  one  thing  and  another. 

Harry  [taking  up  the  telegram  envelope]. 
A  telegram !     Have  you  seen  this  ? 

Archie.     Yes,  it's  from  a  pal  of  mine  called 


ACT  II  6 1 

WInstanley.  [Efjie  turns  and  leaves  the 
room.'] 

Harry  [watching  her  off].  Hullo,  have  you 
two  quarrelled? 

Archie  [laughing  nervously].  Good  Lord, 
no  I  An  argument,  that's  all.  [He  continues 
quickly.]  Winstanley's  home  on  leave.  He 
wants  me  to  meet  him  to-morrow  in  London. 
Is  there  any  objection  to  my  .  .  . 

Harry.  No,  my  dear  fellow,  of  course  not. 
Telegraph  and  say  yes. 

Archie.  Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have. 
I  ought  to  have  asked  you  first.  I'm  sorry. 
[He  gives  an  involuntary  chuckle.] 

Harry.  Oh,  bosh  I  You've  put  in  some  ex- 
cellent work.  You  deserve  a  holiday.  [He 
sits  down  at  his  desk.]  Why  won't  those  men 
be  more  careful?  A  year  ago  Leech  had  ex- 
actly the  same  accident.  He's  been  hanging 
about  the  village  ever  since. 

Archie.     He  wants  me  to  lunch  and  dine. 

Harry  [vaguely].  Lunch  and  dine.  .  .  . 
Oh,  yes.  Well,  you  will,  of  course.  If  I  were 
you  I  should  spend  the  night  in  town.  It's  a 
nuisance  to  have  to  rush  for  the  last  train. 

Archie.  No.  Thanks  very  much.  I'll  get 
Cookie  to  let  me  have  the  latchkey.  I  promise 
not  to  make  a  row. 


62    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Harry.  Just  as  you  like,  old  chap.  Look 
into  my  den  and  if  I'm  up  we'll  have  a  last  pipe. 
I  say,  I  hope  that  you  and  Effie  don't  squabble? 

Archie.  Good  Lord,  no.  It  was  absolutely 
nothing. 

Harry.  That's  all  right.  Effie  has  a  very 
lonely  time.  It's  good  for  her  to  be  friendly 
with  someone  about  her  own  age. 

Archie.  We're  as  thick  as  thieves.  [Enter 
Cookie.'] 

Cookie.     Mrs.  Lemmins. 

Harry  [eagerly].     And  Mary  Ann? 

Cookie.  What  was  Mary  Ann.  She's  so 
changed  I  hardly  knew  her. 

Harry.  Ask  them  in  .  .  .  Oh,  and  Cookie, 
just  light  the  lamp  will  you?  The  light  has 
gone  out  of  the  sky.  It  feels  like  more  rain. 
[He  goes  to  window  and  pulls  the  curtains. 
Cookie  lights  lamp.] 

Archie.     Well  then,  I'll  disappear. 

Harry.  If  you  don't  mind,  old  chap. 
[Archie  picks  up  his  hooks  and  goes  out  thought- 
fidly.  It  is  obvious  that  Effie' s  sudden  embrace 
has  upset  him  and  thrown  him  headlong.  The 
room  is  in  darkness  except  for  the  light  which 
is  thrown  on  the  table  C.  and  the  chairs  on  each 
side  of  it.] 

Harry.  Now  then,  Cookie.  [Cookie  gives 
an  eloquent  gesture  with  her  right  hand  and 


ACT  II  63 

goes  off.  Harry  walks  up  and  down  the  room 
with  his  hands  behind  his  back  until  Cookie  re- 
turns, when  he  draws  up.'\ 

Cookie.  Mrs.  Lemmins.  [A  square  wom- 
an, broad  of  beam,  with  a  large  sunburnt  face 
and  tightly  drawn  hair  under  a  large  black  sun- 
bonnet  enters.  She  is  in  a  very  emotional  con- 
dition and  on  the  verge  of  tears.'\ 

Harry.    Come  In,  Mrs.  Lemmins.    Come  in. 

Mrs.  L.  \_She  strides  down  with  creaking 
boots'\.     Mary  Ann's  a'  come  'ome,  sir. 

Harry.  So  you  said  in  your  note.  I'm 
glad.     Where  Is  she? 

Mrs.  L.  Artside,  sir.  I've  gotter  few 
words  ter  say  ter  yew.  {She  suddenly  bursts 
into  tears."]  She  won't  say  '00  took  'er  awiy 
nor  yet  where's  she  bin.  'E  deserted  'er  some 
time  ago  an'  I  reckon  she's  bin  sellln'  fl'ars  In 
London. 

Harry.     Selling  flowers  I 

Mrs.  L.  'Ow  she  come  to  find  the  Albert 
Edward  al  dunno.  Reckon  she's  bin  on  ther 
tramp  darn  ther  canal. 

Harry.     Poor  little  soul. 

Mrs.  L.    Oh,  sir!    Ther  troubles  on  'er  nar. 

Harry  [in  a  deep  voice].     Oh,  not  —  that! 

Mrs.  L.  [weeping  harder].  Yers,  sir,  and 
'er  not  married. 

Hairy.     This  Is  a  bad  day.      [Goes  to  door 


64    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

and  opens  i/.]  Come  in,  Mary  Ann.  [The 
light  in  the  hall  falls  on  the  pale,  pretty,  worn 
face  of  a  young  girl.  She  wears  a  big  hat  with 
a  bedraggled  feather  and  a  coloured  shawl  over 
her  shoulders.  Her  skirt  is  dusty  and  dirty  and 
her  shoes  down  at  heel.  There  is  a  big  hole  in 
one  of  her  stockings.  She  walks  in  with  a  half- 
insolent,  half-defiant  lurch  and  a  sulky,  fright- 
ened mouth.  She  takes  no  notice  of  her  mother 
and  sits  down,  as  one  sits  in  a  dentist's  chair. 
One  of  her  feet  lops  over  and  she  gives  a  quick 
emotional  glance  round  the  room  of  the  man 
who  is  her  god.'\ 

Harry  [cheerfully].  Mrs.  Lemmins,  I 
should  like  you  to  try  Cookie's  soup.  It's  very 
good.  You  know  your  way  to  the  kitchen. 
[He  returns  to  the  door  and  holds  it  open. 
Mrs.  L.  goes  out.  You  can  hear  her  crying 
down  the  passage.  The  door  is  shut.  Harry 
returns  to  table  and  sits  opposite  to  the  girl.'\ 
Dear  little  Mary  Ann. 

Mary  Ann  [bending  forward  suddenly,  pick- 
ing up  Harry's  hand  and  kissing  f/].  Oh,  I 
wanted  you  —  Ah  I  I  wanted  you,  not  'arf  I 
didn't,  sir.  If  it  ain't  bin  because  I  knewed  as 
'ow  you'd  be  like  this  when  I  come  back  I 
should  ha'  laid  down  in  the  canal. 

Harry  [softly}.     My  dear  child. 

Mary  Ann  [with  a  sort  of  laugh}.     Ever  bin 


ACT  II  6s 

told  as  'ow  you  was  like  deep  quiet  water,  sir? 
.  .  .  There,  like  me  to  show  thankfulness  by 
bein'  saucy,  I  don't  think.  Thank  you  kindly 
fer  seein'  me,  sir. 

Harry.  I  would  have  walked  a  hundred 
miles  to  see  you. 

Mary  Ann.  Would  you  truly,  sir?  .  .  . 
Not  if  you'd  known  as  'ow  you  would  find  me. 
Mother  didn't  say  in  'er  note  what  I'd  done, 
did  she? 

Harry.  She  said  that  you  were  in  trouble, 
Mary  Ann. 

Mary  Ann  {with  a  shrill  hysterical  note  of 
scornl.  Yus!  That  there's  the  wiy  it's  al- 
ways put.  It  wouldn't  be  called  trouble  if  I 
was  merried  though  would  it?  —  and  there'd 
bin  orange  blossoms  and  rice  and  an  old  shoe ! 

Harry  [patting  her  hand'].  My  dear  little 
Mary  Ann. 

Mary  Ann  {beginning  to  cry].  I  wonder 
you  can  stand  the  sight  o'  me  —  me  as  used  tar 
be  the  good  girl  o'  the  school,  me  as  was  held 
up  as  a  model  fer  the  other  girls  .  .  .  an'  yet  I 
don't  see  as  'ow  trouble's  the  word  neither,  un- 
less it's  for  the  little  un.  Jack  won't  'ave  no 
trouble.  I  suppose  I  shall  git  over  it.  It's  the 
little  un  as'll  'ave  all  the  trouble. 

Harry.  We'll  see  to  that,  Mary  Ann. 
Don't  worry. 


66    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Mary  Ann  [eagerly^.     Will  we,  sir? 

Harry.     Why,  of  course. 

Mary  Ann  [without  any  self-pity'].  What's 
to  become  o'  me? 

Harry.  You  shall  come  and  live  here  and 
help  Cookie. 

Mary  Ann.  Oh,  sir  ...  I  want  the 
baby  something  awful.  I  believe  I  wanted 
this  baby  ever  since  the  diy  muvver  give  me  a 
doll. 

Harry.  If  it's  a  boy  we'll  make  a  fine  fellow 
of  him  and  he  shall  go  into  the  army. 

Mary  Ann  [looking  straight  at  the  Vicarl. 
What'U  'e  say  ter  me  when  'e  finds  art? 

Harry.     Leave  that  to  me. 

Mary  Ann  [like  one  who  has  handed  all  re- 
sponsibility to  another^.  I'm  glad  I  come  'ome. 
Everybody's  bin  very  kind  ter  me.  Many's  the 
glass  of  milk  and  'unk  of  bread  I've  'ad  from 
women  with  little  uns  [in  a  gossipy  way].  Jack 
was  very  good  to  me,  till  'e  fell  out  o'  work. 
But  when  I  took  to  sellin'  fl'ars  'e  went  on  the 
drink  and  left  me.  I  waited  for  'im  fer  a  long 
time.  Then  I  thought  I'd  better  try  and  find 
the  Albert  Edward.  I  used  ter  sleep  under 
'aystacks.  They  did  very  nicely  fer  us.  I  was 
never  frightened  o'  nights.  I  'ad  something  to 
whisper  to,  and  to  live  for.  [A  beautiful  ma- 
ternal smile  goes  all  over  her  face.] 


ACT  II  67 

Harry.  Why  didn't  he  marry  you,  Mary 
Ann? 

Mary  Ann.  'E*d  got  a  wife.  'E  told  me  so 
the  day  'e  left  .  .  .  /  was  to  blame  fer  this,  'e 
said. 

Harry.  You  —  you!  What  .a  coward. 
You  know  nothing. 

Mary  Jnn.     That's  it,  sir. 

Harry.     What  do  you  mean  ? 

Alary  Ann.     Me  knowing  nothing. 

Harry.     I  don't  understand  you. 

Mary  Ann.  'E  explained  it  ail  right  ter  me, 
sir.  Me  knowin'  nothin'  'e  says,  and  what  it 
all  meant,  brought  it  abart.  If  I'd  a  bin  told 
when  I  was  old  enough  to  understand  I  should 
a  sent  'im  awiy,  'e  says,  double  quick,  and  saved 
'im  and  me  and  the  little  un  from  this  'ere.  But 
I'm  afraid  I'm  keepin'  you  abart,  sir. 

Harry  [grimly'\.     Go  on. 

Mary  Ann  {having  a  nice  bit  of  news'].  The 
man  ain't  built  for  thinkin',  Jack  sez.  'E 
knows,  but  'e  ain't  perfect  an'  won't  let  'isself 
think.  'E  says  as  'ow  if  we  was  taught  ter  think 
and  knew  as  much  as  the  man,  there'd  be  very 
little  of  this  'ere  trouble  fer  us.  It's  the  mother 
first,  'e  says,  and  then  us,  who  is  ter  blame, 
never  the  men. 

Harry.     My  God  I     [He  springs  up."] 

Mary  Ann  [nervously'].     I  beg  pardon,  sir? 


68    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Harry  {in  a  sort  of  amazement^.  Can  that 
brute  be  right?  Can  It  be  that  we  —  the 
mothers  and  fathers  —  are  partly  to  blame  for 
this,  for  all  such  things  as  this? 

Mary  Ann.     You  side  with  'im,  sir? 

Harry.  No.  I  side  with  you,  my  poor 
child,  with  you  against  your  mother,  myself,  my 
wife,  all  the  mothers  and  fathers  and  teachers 
who  are  answerable  to  God  for  the  disaster 
that's  happened  to  you. 

Mary  Ann.  {The  word  disaster  is  too  much 
for  her.]  Oh  I  [She  puts  her  hands  over  her 
face  and  begins  to  cry  like  a  little  child.] 

Harry  {to  himself].  What  have  I  been  do- 
ing? .  .  .  {He  turns  to  Mary  Ann.]  Go  to 
the  kitchen  and  have  some  soup  and  then  go 
back  to  the  barge  with  your  mother. 

Mary  Ann  {rising].     Yes,  sir. 

Harry  {putting  his  hands  on  her  shoulders]. 
And  never  forget  this.  You  have  friends  in 
this  house.  When  you're  ready  this  roof  is 
yours.     Good  night,  my  child. 

Mary  Ann.  Good  night,  sir.  Thank  you 
kindly  for  seeing  me.     I'm  glad  I  come  'ome. 

Harry.  And  I'm  thankful  you  did.  God 
bless  you.  {He  opens  the  door.  Mary  Ann 
goes  out  slowly.  Harry  goes  to  the  table,  picks 
up  the  lamp  and  carries  it  to  his  desk,  putting 
it  on  the  shelf  above  the  books.     The  light  is 


ACT  II  69 

thrown  all  over  the  room.  Effie's  voice  is 
heard  suddenly  calling  "  Archie,  Archie!  "  He 
turns  round  and  stands  quite  still  for  a  moment. 
He  looks  frightened,  terribly  frightened.  He 
moves  irresolutely.  He  touches  things,  and 
then  with  a  sort  of  fear  he  goes  to  the  door, 
opens  it  and  calls.']     Helen  I     Helen! 

Mrs.  P.     Yes. 

Harry.  Come  here,  quickly.  {He  remains 
by  the  door.  There  is  a  slight  pause.  Mrs. 
P.  enters.  Before  the  door  is  closed  Effie's 
laugh  rings  out  in  the  distance  and  she  is  heard 
calling,  "Archie!     Archie!"] 

Helen  [entering  and  coming  L.].  Do  you 
want  me,  dear? 

Harry  [gravely  and  quietly].  Yes.  Sit 
down,  darling.     I  want  to  speak  to  you. 

Helen  [sitting  and  looking  up  quickly]. 
You're  upset  about  something? 

Harry  [still  standing  in  front  of  her].  Up- 
set, and  humiliated  and  very  worried.  [He 
sits  down.]     I  don't  quite  know  how  to  begin. 

Helen  [putting  her  hand  on  his].  You  and 
I  are  partners,  dearest.  Let  me  see  if  I  can 
help  you. 

Harry  [leaning  forward  and  repressing  him- 
self  with  an  effort].  It's  an  amazing  thing, 
Helen,  but  in  all  my  years  of  work  in  London 
and  here,  the  case  of  Mary  Ann  is  the  only  one 


70    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

which  has  opened  my  eyes  to  the  appalling  dan- 
ger of  ignorance. 

Helen.  Ignorance !  What  makes  you  think 
that  Mary  Ann  is  ignorant? 

Harry.  Everything  that  she  has  just  told 
me.  I've  always  been  led  to  believe  that  all  the 
poor  wretched  Mary  Anns  of  the  world  have 
got  into  trouble,  not  because  they  wanted  to  be 
immoral  but  because  if  they  were  not  immoral 
they  were  unpopular. 

Helen.  I'm  afraid  that's  true,  Harry.  It's 
a  sordid,  calculating,  knowledgeable  affair,  fre- 
quently winked  at  by  the  parents,  many  of  whom 
are  surprised  if  their  girls  are  married  before 
they  get  into  trouble. 

Harry.  Yes,  to  these  people  the  sex  prob- 
lem isn't  a  problem  at  all.  They  recognise 
facts.  Men  must  be  men,  they  say,  and  if  the 
girls  don't  want  to  be  hopelessly  neglected  they 
must  not  be  squeamish.  Like  everybody  who 
comes  in  contact  with  the  great  working  class 
their  looseness  has  appalled  me. 

Helen  [proudly'].  Yes,  but  you  have  done  a 
great  work  in  this  village,  Harry.  You  have 
raised  the  moral  standard  of  the  men  —  the 
best  and  only  way  to  protect  all  these  poor  girls. 

Harry  [leading  carefully  up  to  his  point;  he 
anticipates  trouble].  But  here  we  have  Mrs. 
Lemmins,    a    self-respecting    woman,    earning 


ACT  II  71 

good  wages,  leading  a  healthy,  hardworking 
life.  Mary  Ann  has  been  carefully  brought  up. 
She's  not  a  slum  child  reared  in  the  filthy  cor- 
ners of  a  city.  She's  not  a  worker  in  the  fields, 
obliged  to  rub  shoulders  with  blasphemous  and 
drunken  men.  Her  innocence  has  been  jeal- 
ously guarded.  "  No  lady's  daughter,"  Mrs. 
Lemmins  used  to  boast,  "  need  be  ashamed  to 
speak  to  my  Mary  Ann." 

Helen.  And  she  was  right,  poor  old  soul. 
Mary  Ann  was  a  model,  a  perfect  model. 

Harry  [seizing  his  chancel.  A  model!  A 
model  of  what  a  girl  ought  not  to  be?  Inno- 
cent, yes.     But  ignorant,  no. 

Helen.  But  how  can  you  expect  a  girl  to  be 
innocent  If  she  is  not  ignorant? 

Harry.  That's  just  exactly  what  I've  asked 
you  to  come  here  to  tell  me.  You  say  that 
Mary  Ann  was  a  model.  Look  at  her  now. 
Helen,  why  don't  we  tell  our  children  the  truth? 
Why  do  we  go  on  hiding  behind  false  modesty 
and  personal  cowardice?  Why,  why  are  we 
afraid  of  looking  at  the  great  simple  things 
square  in  the  face  ? 

Helen  {waving  it  asidej.  Oh,  It's  all  very 
difficult,  Harry.  It's  all  been  argued  a  thou- 
sand times  and  there's  never  been  any  satisfac- 
tory result. 

Harry  [eagerly  and  quickly'\.     But  why  not? 


72     THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Everything  else  has  progressed  and  yet  in  this 
vital  matter  we  are  still  prehistoric.  Surely  the 
time  for  puritanism  is  dead  and  done  with. 
Surely  this  persistent  attitude  of  deceiving  our 
girls  and  of  dodging  their  wondering  questions 
from  the  utterly  mistaken  standpoint  of  clean- 
mindedness  is  not  for  intelligent  and  humane 
people.  Why  do  we  turn  sniggering  or  shame- 
faced from  youthful  questions  prompted  by  an 
unconscious  awakening  of  the  maternal  instinct? 
Why  do  we  drive  our  ignorant  children  to  such 
tragedies  as  poor  little  Mary  Ann  will  suffer  un- 
der all  her  life?  God  has  made  the  earth  incred- 
ibly beautiful,  but  we  do  nothing  to  put  beauty 
into  the  lives  of  His  children.  Every  day  His 
young  things  ask  their  parents  the  meaning  of 
life.  Why  don't  we  tell  them,  Helen?  Why 
don't  you  tell  Effief  [He  throws  his  bomb 
and  watches  his  wife  keenly."] 

Helen  \_a  note  of  amazement  and  shock  in 
her  voice].     Effie?     Tell  Effie? 

Harry.  Yes,  darling,  Effie.  She  Is  very 
nearly  a  woman.  She  has  been  far  more  care- 
fully brought  up  than  Mary  Ann.  She  has 
spent  her  life  almost  within  the  four  walls  of 
this  house  and  garden.  We  have  deliberately 
shielded  her  against  the  questions  of  sex. 
What  might  happen  to  her  if  she  fell  in  love 
with  some  good-looking,  unscrupulous  boy? 


ACT  II  73 

Helen.     You  mean  —  Archie? 

Harry.  No.  I  mean  anyone.  We  know 
nothing  of  Effie's  mind  on  this  point.  She  is 
seventeen  and  if  she's  a  healthy  girl  she  has, 
whether  she  knows  it  or  not,  the  maternal  in- 
stinct. 

Helen.  Yes,  but  she  is  clean  minded  and 
good. 

Harry.  But  who's  to  know  that  she  is 
strong  enough  to  resist  temptation? 

Helen.  Harry!  [She  is  absolutely 
shocked.'] 

Harry.  Who's  to  know  that  nature  hasn't 
punished  her  by  giving  her  desires  as  strong  as 
those  of  men? 

Helen  \_stiffly'\.  Then  she  will  not  remain 
innocent  whether  she  knows  the  truth  or  not. 

Harry  [leaning  forward].  No,  no,  no, 
that's  a  sweeping  assertion,  darling,  an  unchar- 
itable idea.  Here  and  there,  of  course,  there 
are  poor  girls  to  whom  morality  and  innocence 
mean  nothing  under  the  stress  of  nature.  But 
to  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  virtue  means 
everything,  and  I  say  now  —  I  wish  with  all  my 
soul  I'd  said  it  sooner  —  that  a  woman  who  lets 
her  daughter  struggle  blindly  through  the 
awakening  years  of  her  womanhood  is  not  fit  to 
be  a  mother. 

Helen     [rising].      Oh,     Harry!      [Going 


74    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

across  room  towards  table.  She  is  deeply 
wounded.'] 

Harry  [follows  her  and  puts  his  hands  on 
her  shoulders'].  My  dear,  I  want  you  to  speak 
to  Effie  to-night. 

Helen.     I  couldn't  —  I  simply  couldn't. 

Harry.  I  ask  you  to.  Effie  might  have 
been  Mary  Ann!     Think  of  it! 

Helen  [with  anger  and  passion  and  dignity. 
She  looks  like  a  woman  fighting  a  disease]. 
She  never  could  have  been  Mary  Ann,  never. 
She  is  our  daughter,  my  daughter.  Every  day 
of  her  life  she  has  been  with  us,  with  vie.  Do 
atmosphere  and  environment  count  for  nothing? 
What  is  the  use  of  all  our  teaching  and  example 
if  she  is  to  be  treated  as  one  of  these  poor  girls 
from  whom  nothing  can  be  hidden?  She  is 
pure  of  heart  and  mind.  At  the  right  moment 
the  maternal  instinct  will  come  to  her,  as  it 
comes  to  all  carefully  brought  up  girls.  Let 
her  be  free  from  all  that  side  of  life  as  long  as 
she  can.  [More  quietly.]  Besides,  Harry,  it 
isn't  done.  We  don't  tell  these  things  to  our 
girls.  My  mother  never  told  me.  She  didn't 
want  me  to  know.  She  was  all  against  the  dis- 
cussion of  these  terribly  personal  matters  with 
young  unmarried  girls.  I  found  out  the  truth 
for  myself.     Effie  must  do  the   same.     [She 


ACT  II  75 

says  this  in  a  low  voice  as  though  she  were  in 
church.'] 

Harry  [^quietly  hut  with  emotion].  Darling, 
Effie  might  have  been  Mary  Ann.  Mrs.  Lem- 
mins  never  thought  of  telling  her  the  truth. 
Look  at  her  now.  No  man  can  say  what  he 
will  do  under  temptation.  No  woman  can  say 
what  she  may  do  in  ignorance.  Effie  might 
have  been  Mary  Ann.     Think  of  it. 

Helen.  I  can't  think  of  it.  It's  altogether 
unthinkable. 

Harry  [with  a  touch  of  anger].  But  /  think 
of  it.  I  must  think  of  it.  And  I  ask  you  this. 
I  ask  you,  for  Effie's  sake,  and  for  my  sake,  and 
for  your  sake,  to  forget  what  your  mother  did, 
and  all  these  other  refined  women  do,  and  face 
this  question  fearlessly. 

Helen.     I  .  .  .  can't! 

Harry  [turns  away  and  goes  quickly  hack  to 
armchair  L.,  wheels  round  and  stops  C.]. 
Helen,  you  and  I  have  never  had  a  harsh  word 
since  we  knew  each  other.  It  will  be  a  black 
day  if  ever  we  do.  For  God's  sake,  don't  drive 
me  into  anger  over  what  is  one  of  the  most  vital 
questions  that  has  ever  come  into  our  lives. 
Effie's  happiness  and  safety  are  in  our  hands. 
Are  you  going  to  be  brave  enough  to  do  some- 
thing that  isn't  done  —  are  you  going  to  rise 


\ 


76    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

above  a  horrible  and  dangerous  convention  andV 
put  yourself  to  the  distress  and  discomfort  of  \ 
speaking  to  Effie  —  or  will  you  leave  it  to  mef  ^ 
{There  is  a  threat  in  his  voice.'] 

Helen  [frightened].     Harry  I 

Harry.  Effie  might  have  been  Mary  Ann. 
Answer  me!  {He  brings  the  weight  of  his 
whole  personality  against  her.  She  stands  ir- 
resolute, nervously  twisting  her  fingers.  Now 
she  stands  up  stiffly.     The  child  is  hers.] 

Helen  {reluctantly].  1  .  .  .  I  will  tell  her. 
{She  is  even  more  frightened  at  hearing  her 
own  statement,  puts  out  her  arms,  gives  a  sob 
and  goes  quickly  to  the  man  whom  she  loves 
more  than  life.     Harry  wraps  her  in  his  arms.^ 


{Curtain.] 


/ 
/ 


ACT  III 

Two  mornings  later  at  half-past  six. 

The  Scene  is  laid  in  Archie's  bedroom.  It  is 
a  square  room  lined  with  wood  from  floor 
to  ceiling.  Door  down  R.  Above  door 
running  close  to  wall  a  narrow  wooden 
bedstead,  the  bed  unslept  upon.  At  back 
two  windows  between  which  is  a  high  chest 
of  drawers  on  which  there  is  a  looking- 
glass,  L.  C.  There  is  a  fireplace.  Above 
fireplace  deep  cupboards.  On  each  side 
of  the  fireplace  are  cane  deck  chairs  with 
cushions  in  them.  The  floor  is  carpeted 
with  a  worn  turkey  carpet  especially  worn 
in  front  of  the  chest  of  drawers. 

Both  windows  have  rather  deep  window  seats. 
In  front  of  the  one  R.  there  is  a  shaving 
stand.  On  the  other  window  seat  are  ar- 
ranged half  a  dozen  pairs  of  shoes  for 
golf,  tennis  and  ordinary  wear  and  beneath 
the  window  seat  there  are  a  number  of 
pairs  of  boots,  all  jacked. 

From  hooks  on  door  are  hanging  flannel  trou- 
sers, white  and  grey.  Over  the  end  of 
77 


78     THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

bed  and  over  all  the  backs  of  chairs  there 
are  clothes.  There  is  a  little  old-fashioned 
sofa  in  front  of  fireplace  and  on  this  are 
heaped  shirts,  socks,  stockings,  waistcoats, 
braces,  etc.  The  whole  appearance  of  the 
room  is  irresistibly  untidy,  comfortable  and 
cheerful. 

The  walls  are  closely  hung  with  framed  photos 
of  college  groups,  and  Eights,  and  over  the 
mantelpiece  suspended  from  a  brass  rod 
is  hanging  an  oar,  on  the  blade  of  which 
the  names  and  weights  of  an  Eight  are 
painted.  A  line  of  hooks  stands  on  the 
mantelpiece.  Stowed  away  in  corners 
there  are  leather  shirt  cases,  kit  bags  and 
trunks. 

The  windows  are  open  and  a  honeysuckle  climbs 
round  the  outsides  of  them.  The  sun 
pours  into  the  room.  The  curtain  rises 
on  an  empty  stage. 

[After  a  pause  the  door  is  opened  quietly  and 
Archie  enters,  carrying  a  shirt  case.  He 
wears  a  straw  hat  tilted  and  is  dressed  in 
a  suit  of  dark  flannels.  He  looks  merry 
and  bright.  He  shuts  the  door  carefully,, 
puts  the  shirt  case  on  the  sofa,  undoes  it 
and  unpacks.  As  he  takes  out  his  evening 
clothes,  opera  hat  and  dress  shoes,  and 
hangs  them  in  the  wardrobe,  he  whistles 


ACT  III  79 

softly.  Now  he  takes  out  a  large  collec- 
tion of  new  ties  and  eyes  them  with  pride. 
The  door  opens  quietly  and  Harry  enters 
in  his  shirt  sleeves  with  a  brush  in  each 
hand.'\ 

Archie  \_turning  with  a  smile'].  Good  morn- 
ing, sir. 

Harry  [surprised].  Hullo,  you're  up  early. 
I  expected  to  find  you  with  your  mouth  open, 
snoring  like  a  grampus  .  .  .  but  what's  this? 
You  haven't  been  to  bed  I 

Archie.     No.     I've  only  just  got  here. 

Harry  [sharply].     How's  that? 

Archie  [glibly].  It  was  .  .  .  awful  bad 
luck.  Winstariley  had  a  touch  of  fever  last 
night,  so  after  the  show  I  went  back  with  him 
to  his  room  in  Bury  Street  and  sat  with  him. 

Harry  [heartily].  Good  for  you,  my  dear 
fellow.  How  on  earth  did  you  get  down  so 
early? 

Archie  [frowning  deeply  and  looking  as 
though  he  hated  himself].  I  caught  a  work- 
man's train. 

Harry.     But  you  must  be  frightfully  tired. 

Archie.     No.     I'm  all  right,  thanks. 

Harry  [turning  round].  Turn  in  and  have 
a  sleep.  I'll  tell  Cookie  not  to  call  you  till 
eleven.     That'll  be  better  than  nothing. 


8o    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Archie.  Oh,  rather  not.  I'm  not  a  bit 
sleepy.  Besides  I'm  playing  golf  with  Effie  at 
seven. 

Harry.  Just  as  you  like.  [Goes  to  looking- 
glass  and  brushes  his  hair.'\  Oh,  for  the  glad 
days  when  I  was  twenty-one  ...  I  often  use 
this  glass  when  you're  asleep. 

Archie.  But  aren't  you  up  earlier  than  usual, 
sir? 

Harry.  Just  a  bit.  I'm  going  down  to 
the  barge  to  see  little  Mary  Ann,  poor  little 
soul.  Her  baby  was  born  last  night.  It  was 
dead. 

Archie  [involuntarily].     Oh,  I'm  sorry. 

Harry  [solemnly'].  Who  can  say  whether 
one  is  to  be  sorry  or  glad?  Her  mother  calls 
it  the  child  of  sin.  I  don't  think  that  God 
will  call  it  by  such  a  name.  .  .  .  Well,  It's  a 
grand  morning  for  golf,  but  stick  on  your  thick- 
est shoes,  the  dew  Is  very  heavy.  [He  goes 
towards  door.] 

Archie  [quickly].  May  I  keep  you  a  second, 
sir.     I  want  to  tell  you  something. 

Harry.  Not  now,  old  man,  after  breakfast. 
Mrs.  Lemmins  Is  waiting  for  me.     [Exit.] 

Archie  [eagerly].  But  .  .  .  [the  door 
shuts].  Oh,  God,  why  did  I  say  It?  [He  sits 
down  in  chair  above  fireplace  in  an  attitude  of 
hopeless  depression.     Enter  Cookie.] 


ACT  III  «t 

Cookie.  Well,  you're  a  nice  one,  I  don't 
think. 

Archie.     I  don't  think  so  either. 

Cookie.  I  met  him  on  the  stairs  and  he  told 
me  as  'ow  you'd  only  just  got  back.  What 
d'you  do?     Miss  the  last  train? 

Archie.     Yes. 

Cookie.  Did  you  sleep  at  the  hotel  at  Pad- 
dington  ? 

Archie.     No.     I  went  home. 

Cookie.  Well,  from  the  sound  of  you,  you 
don't  seem  to  'ave  put  in  a  very  good  time. 

Archie.     Oh,  I  put  in  a  good  enough  time. 

Cookie.  Too  good  praps.  Dessay  you're 
feelin'  a  bit  blawsy. 

Archie.     What's  that? 

Cookie  Isurprised].  French  for  a  whisky 
'ead. 

Archie  [bending  forward  and  putting  his 
head  between  his  hands^.     No. 

Cookie.  My  mistake  [examines  him  with 
keen  sympathy].     What's  the  matter? 

Archie.     Nothing's  the  matter. 

Cookie.  Tell  me  another.  You've  got 
something  or  other  pretty  bad.  'Ave  a  cupper 
tea,  dear.      [  The  mother  feeling  is  in  her  voice.'] 

Archie.  No,  thanks.  Cookie.  I'll  wait  for 
breakfast. 

Cookie.     Just  as  you  fancy  but  it  won't  take 


S2    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

me  a  jiffy  to  get  you  one.     Come  on,  you  may 
as  well.     You  look,  tired. 

Archie.  You're  awfully  kind  Cookie,  but 
I'd  rather  wait.  Don't  let  me  keep  you  from 
getting  one  for  the  Vicar.  He's  up  frightfully 
early  this  morning. 

Cookie.  Yus,  and  'e  went  to  bed  frightfully 
late  last  night.  Kep'  up  most  of  it  by  Mary 
Ann  down  at  the  barge.  'E  don't  get  a  legiti- 
mate night's  rest  once  in  six.  If  I  was  the 
missus  I'd  strap  'im  down  to  his  bed.  All  the 
troubles  in  the  world  can  be  seen  to  in  twelve 
hours  of  daylight,  I  say.  Come  on  now,  'ave 
a  nice  cupper  tea,  Mr.  Archie. 

Archie.  For  heaven's  sake  don't  bother 
about  me. 

Cookie  \hurt  and  going  towards  door].  All 
right,  all  right,  all  right.  Keep  yer  'air  on. 
[She  stops  and  turns,  -filled  with  something  more 
than  curiosity.  The  hoy's  attitude  worries  her. 
She  means  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  it.'\  I  sup- 
pose you're  playin'  gowf  as  usual  along  o'  Miss 
Effie? 

Archie.     No.     I'm  not  in  the  mood  for  it. 

Cookie  {returning  from  door].  'Ave  a  few 
words  with  yer  father  yesterday? 

Archie.     No,  I  didn't  see  my  father. 

Cookie.  Oh,  then  you  backed  an  'orse  and 
went  down. 


ACT  III  83 

Archie.     Didn't  have  a  bet. 

Cookie.  Then  you're  sickening  for  some- 
thing. 

Archie.     No.     I'm  as  fit  as  a  fiddle. 

Cookie  [taking  up  dress  trousers  and  folding 
them  carefully,  eyeing  him  all  the  time'].  I've 
got  it. 

Archie.     Got  what? 

Cookie  [triumphantly'].  Yus,  I've  got  it. 
You're  in  love. 

Archie  [simply].  I've  been  in  love  for 
weeks. 

Cookie.     Ah! 

Archie.  But  as  I've  no  right  to  be,  I  just 
recognise  the  fact  as  I  recognise  that  the  sun 
sets  and  the  moon  rises  and  leave  it  at  that. 
I'm  worried.  Damnably  worried,  but  not 
about  that. 

Cookie  [very  sympathetically].  Poor  boy. 
I  can  lend  you  two  pound  sixteen  if  that's  any 
good. 

Archie  [gets  up  and  puts  his  hand  on  her 
shoulder].  Thank  you,  Cookie.  You're  a 
Briton,  but  it  isn't  money.  [Goes  over  to  the 
shaving  stand.] 

Cookie.  Well,  then,  I  give  it  up.  If  it  ain't 
love  and  it  ain't  money,  and  It  ain't  illness, 
what  in  the  name  of  all  that's  wonderful,  is  it? 

Archie  [with  a  hurst].     It's  the  devil. 


84    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Cookie.  Oh-h!  It's  'im,  Is  it?  All  I  can 
suggest  is  that  you  'ave  an  'eart  to  'eart  with 
the  Vicar.  What  'e  don't  know  about  the  devil, 
isn't  worth  knowing.  I  shall  get  you  a  cupper 
tea  for  all  that.  Something  warm  In  the  tummy 
always  disconcerts  old  Nick.  [She  goes  out. 
Archie  gets  up,  walks  about  the  room  for  a 
moment  and  then  goes  to  dressing  table  and 
leans  on  it  with  his  back  to  audience.  Enter 
Harry.'\ 

Harry.  Have  you  got  any  money,  old  fel- 
low? I  hadn't  time  to  cash  a  cheque  yesterday, 
and  poor  Mrs.  Lemmins  is  without  funds.  I 
suddenly  remembered  and  came  back. 

Archie  {turning'].  How  much  do  you  want, 
sir?     I've  only  got  three  sovereigns. 

Harry.  That'll  do  splendidly.  Thanks 
very  much. 

Archie  [taking  out  his  money].  It's  just 
short  of  three  pounds. 

Harry.  Never  mind.  It'll  do  for  the  time 
being.  There  are  things  to  get  for  Mary  Ann. 
[He  takes  it.]     Thanks. 

Archie  [going  to  door  and  putting  his  back 
to  it,  his  face  is  set  and  drawn].  You've  got 
to  know  something. 

Harry  [surprised  at  the  boy's  tone].  Is  any- 
thing the  matter? 

Archie.     I  lied  to  you  just  now. 


ACT  III  8s 

Harry.     Did  you,  why? 

Archie.  Because  I've  been  trained  to  He  and 
I  haven't  broken  myself  of  the  habit.  I  forgot 
that  I  wasn't  talking  to  one  of  the  men  who 
wouldn't  believe  me  if  I  told  the  truth.  If  I 
had  said  that  I  didn't  come  down  last  night 
because  I  missed  my  train,  I  should  have  been 
called  a  liar  by  them.  They  would  have  sus- 
pected me  of  some  rot,  so  from  force  of  habit 
I  was  afraid  to  tell  the  simple  truth  and  in- 
vented Win's  fever.  [He  takes  several  steps 
towards  Harry.]  Hit  me  in  the  face,  knock 
me  down,  hurt  me  vilely.     I  want  you  to. 

Harry  [going  over  to  sofa  and  pretending 
to  examine  the  lock  of  the  shirt  case].  Old 
boy,  have  you  ever  been  to  Westminster  Ab- 
bey? 

Archie.     Yes. 

Harry.  Have  you  wondered  how  long  and 
arduously  men  must  have  worked  to  build  up 
that  gorgeous  place  ? 

Archie.     Yes. 

Harry.  You've  been  trying  to  build  up  an 
Abbey  before  you've  laid  all  the  foundation 
stones.  .  .  .  An  excellent  shirt  case  this. 
Holds  a  lot  too.  .  .  .  See  what  I  mean? 

Archie  [after  a  pause'].  But  have  I  laid  any 
foundation  stones  at  all? 

Harry.     Several  of  the  most  Important,  and 


86    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

better  still  you  know  which  one  you  haven't  laid. 
\^He  crosses  to  Archie  and  puts  his  arm  round 
his  shoulder.']  Go  easy,  my  dear  lad.  Give 
yourself  time.  The  stucco  building,  the  imita- 
tion affair  that  you  were  made  to  put  up  by 
your  silly  fool  architects  Is  demolished.  Don't 
be  afraid.  Don't  press.  Don't  try  and  make 
records.  I'll  back  you  to  win  after  you've 
trained  a  bit  more. 

Archie.  Then  you  .  .  .  you  don't  despise 
me  for  this?  You  won't  let  this  affair  ever 
make  you  suspect  me? 

Harry.  My  dear  fellow,  I'm  your  friend, 
not  your  taskmaster  or  drill  sergeant.  I  go 
through  every  day  what  you've  just  been  going 
through,  and  I  thank  God  for  It.  It's  my  only 
chance  of  ever  becoming  all  I  hope  to  be.  A 
man's  reach  must  exceed  his  grasp  or  what's 
a  Heaven  for? 

Archie  {^trying  not  to  break  down'].  You're 
.  .  .  you're  most  awfully  kind. 

Harry  [realising  this  and  becoming  casual]. 
It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  have  told  me.  [^He 
counts  the  money  in  his  hand.]  Two  pounds, 
eighteen  and  seven  pence.  You  shall  have  it 
back  this  afternoon.  Make  the  most  of  this 
gorgeous  morning.  [Harry  holds  his  hand  out 
to  Archie.  Archie  makes  a  dart  at  it  and  grips 
it.     Harry  turns  and  goes  out.     Archie  heaves 


ACT  III  87 

a  sigh  of  relief,  remains  where  he  is  for  a  mO' 
ment,  then  goes  to  window.} 

Archie  [waving  his  hand'].  So  long,  sir. 
[He  takes  off  his  coat  and  waistcoat,  picks  up 
the  handle  of  the  exerciser  which  is  screwed  to 
the  wall  above  sofa  and  exercises  vigorously. 
Enter  Cookie  with  a  cup  of  tea  on  a  tray  which 
also  contains  bread  and  butter  and  radishes.] 

Cookie.  Ah !  That's  the  way.  Punch  him 
In  the  neck.  Put  both  your  fistesses  in  his 
wind.  The  devil  'ates  'ealthiness.  [She  goes 
off  into  one  of  her  shrill  screams  of  laughter.] 

Archie  [laughing  and  continuing  to  exercise]. 
You  are  a  persistent  old  female. 

Cookie.  Persistent  me  foot!  And  as  to  be- 
ing old,  I'm  In  the  first  flush  of  giddy  youth. 
...  Now  as  to  sugar,  is  it  one  or  two  ? 

Archie.     Two. 

Cookie.  That's  all  right.  Where  will  you 
have  it? 

Archie.     Put  It  on  the  bed,  Cookie. 

Cookie.  It's  the  only  tidy  place  In  the  room. 
I  can'tikeep  you  straight.  Don't  let  It  get  cold. 
[She  goes  to  door  having  put  the  tray  on  the 
bed.] 

Archie.  Thanks,  most  awfully.  You're  one 
In  a  million. 

Cookie.  Now  you'd  better  take  advantage 
of  the  sun.     It'll  rain  before  you  can  say  knife. 


88     THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Archie.  Not  it.  There  was  no  ring  round 
the  moon  last  night. 

Cookie.  Can't  'elp  no  ring  round  the  moon. 
What  about  my  poor  feet?  [^Exit.  Archie 
continues  to  exercise.  After  a  pause  the  door 
opens  and  Effie  enters  with  a  scarlet  dressing 
gown  over  her  nightdress.     Her  feet  are  bare.^ 

Effie.  It  is  you  then !  I  woke  up  suddenly 
and  thought  I  heard  you. 

Archie  [dropping  the  exerciser  with  a  clat- 
ter']. How  long  will  you  be  before  you're 
ready  ? 

Effie.     Ready  for  what  ? 

Archie.     Nine  holes. 

Effie  {skips  on  to  the  bed].  Oh,  there's 
heaps  of  time.     I  want  to  hear  all  your  news. 

Archie  [hurriedly  and  uneasily].  Why  not 
wait  till  we're  on  the  links  ? 

Effie  [laughing],  [She  looks  angelic  and  all 
flushed  from  sleep.]  Two  reasons.  There's 
no  need  and  I  don't  want  to. 

Archie.     I'd  ever  so  much  rather  you  did. 

Effie  [airily].  I  can't  help  your  troubles. 
You  gave  me  a  horribly  lonely  day,  and  kept 
me  up  half  the  night.  You  must  pay  for  these 
things  by  doing  what  I  want  you  to  do. 

Archie.  I  kept  you  up  half  the  night  .  .  . 
how? 

Effie.     Well,  you  don't  suppose  I  was  going 


ACT  III  89 

to  let  you  come  in  without  hearing  all  the  de- 
tails of  your  day,  do  you?  I  waited  here  till 
I  fell  asleep.  It  was  four  o'clock  when  I  went 
to  my  own  room. 

Archie  \^gasping'\.     You  waited  here? 

Effie.  Yes.  Of  course  I  did.  Where  else 
could  I  wait? 

Archie  [more  and  more  uneasy,  hut  all  on 
fire  with  her  loveliness^.  I  say,  Cookie  says 
it's  going  to  rain.  For  goodness'  sake  go  and 
get  up. 

Effie.  May  I  have  a  drop  of  your  tea  ?  It 
looks  good. 

Archie.     Have  it  all. 

Effie.  No,  we'll  go  halves.  [She  drinks 
from  the  cup  and  hands  it  to  Archie.'\  Here 
you  are. 

Archie  [taking  cup  and  putting  it  on  dressing 
table].  You're  evidently  not  going  to  play  this 
morning,  then. 

Effie.  I  shan't  stir  an  inch  until  you  give  me 
an  account  of  everything  that  you've  done  from 
the  very  beginning.  Have  you  noticed  all  the 
changes  since  you've  been  away? 

Archie.     Yes. 

Effie.  No,  you  haven't.  I'm  certain  that 
you  passed  the  rose  trees  in  the  front  without 
looking  at  them.  They've  got  a  magnificent 
new  rose  apiece. 


90    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Archie,     Really? 

Effie.  And  did  you  catch  sight  of  those 
darling  sweet  peas  in  the  old  tree  trunks  by 
the  gate?  Dozens  of  new  blooms  since  you 
went  away,  simply  dozens.  And  I  picked  an 
armful  yesterday  afternoon.  The  more  you 
pick  the  more  you  may.  Do  you  know  what  I 
think  about  sweet  peas? 

Archie  \_obviously  fascinated  by  the  girl's  ap- 
pearance].    No,  what? 

Effie.  Well,  I've  discovered  that  a  sweet 
pea  is  different  from  all  other  flowers.  It's  not 
a  bit  cocky  and  puffed  up  about  its  bloom.  Its 
one  ambition  in  life  is  to  bloom  quickly,  if  pos- 
sible somewhere  where  it  can't  be  seen,  and 
then  hurry  for  all  its  worth  into  pod.  Since 
I've  found  that  out  I  hate  picking  it.  It  does 
seem  so  cruel  to  stop  it  from  doing  what  it 
wants  to  do  so  awfully  much.  Don't  you  think 
so? 

Archie  [going  to  door  and  listening'].     Yes. 

Effie.  I  don't  believe  you  heard  a  word  I 
said. 

Archie.     Yes,  I  did. 

Effie.     What  did  I  say? 

Archie.  You  said  you  loved  picking  sweet 
peas  because  that's  the  only  thing  they  care 
about. 

Effie  [hursts  out  laughing].     Oh,  that's  good. 


ACT  III  91 

Archie  {intensely  uncomfortable,  shutting  the 
door].     Not  so  loud. 

Effie.  Yes,  I  mustn't  wake  mother  up.  She 
was  very  tired  last  night. 

Archie.  We  shan't  get  nine  holes  unless  you 
hurry  up. 

Effie.  Very  well  then,  we  shan't.  I  do  wish 
you  would  sit  down  for  five  minutes. 

Archie.  I  thought  you  wanted  to  know 
about  my  yesterday's  doings.  You're  talking 
about  everything  else  under  the  sun. 

Effie.     Well,  shall  I  tell  you  the  truth  ? 

Archie  [strongly].  Yes,  for  God's  sake  do 
.  .  .  always. 

Effie  {eyeing  him].  You  are  in  a  queer  mood 
to-day. 

Archie.     No,  I'm  not.     I'm  all  right. 

Effie.  Well,  I  don't  take  a  vast  interest  in 
anything  you  did  yesterday  if  you  must  know. 

Archie.     Why  not? 

Effie.  Because  I  wanted  you  here.  I  hated 
your  going  away. 

Archie.     I  wish  I  hadn't  gone. 

Effie.  Do  you  wish  you  hadn't  gone  because 
I  didn't  want  you  to  go,  or  because  you  didn't 
have  a  good  time? 

Archie.  Oh,  I  suppose  I  put  in  a  good 
enough  time.  .  .  .  Listen ! 

Effie.     It's  only  Cookie.     Call  her  in  and 


92     IHE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

ask  her  for  some  more  tea.  {Skips  back  on 
to  the  bed.  Her  dressing  gown  is  open  and  all 
the  lace  about  her  neck  can  be  seen.'\ 

Archie.     No,  no. 

Effie.  Well,  did  you  get  your  socks  and 
ties? 

Archie.  Yes.  \He  cannot  help  looking  at 
her.  She  fascinates  and  allures  him  with  fear- 
ful unconsciousness.'] 

Effie.     How  many? 

Archie.  A  dozen  of  both.  [He  is  drawn 
towards  her.  He  can  hardly  keep  his  hands  off 
her.] 

Effie.  A  dozen !  I  don't  believe  father  has 
had  as  many  as  a  dozen  In  his  life.  Did  you 
find  your  friend  much  changed? 

Archie.  Old  Win?  Rather.  I  hardly 
knew  him.  I  should  have  passed  him  if  I'd 
seen  him  in  the  street. 

Effie.     What's  happened  to  him  then  ? 

Archie.  India  and  —  and  the  Service. 
From  being  a  man  of  some  individuality  he's 
developed  into  a  type. 

Effie.  You  liked  him  ...  as  much  as  be- 
fore? 

Archie.  When  I  found  him  ...  or  rather 
the  remains  of  him.  Really  and  truly  talking 
to  him  was  like  talking  to  a  regiment,  not  a 
man.     I  felt  that  all  his  brother  officers  an- 


ACT  III  93 

swered  when  he  answered.  He  had  a  most 
curious  effect  on  me.  ^Archie  has  fallen  under 
the  girVs  spell  and  his  horrible  uneasiness  at 
her  presence  in  his  room  is  forgotten  for  the 
time  being.'] 

Effie.     Did  he,  what? 

Archie.  Well  thinking  back,  I'm  perfectly 
certain  I  was  afraid  to  be  myself  and  gradually 
became  him. 

Effie.     How  ? 

Archie.  I  mean  I  became  a  cavalryman  too 
for  the  time. 

Effie.     How  do  you  become  a  cavalryman  ? 

Archie  {with  a  laugh].  You  stiffen  your 
back,  arm  and  legs,  and  make  your  tongue  very 
heavy,  check  any  desire  you  may  have  either 
to  tell  anything  or  ask  anything  and  think  hard 
about  good  form.  It's  not  easy  for  a  civil- 
ian. 

Effie.  I  can't  imagine  you  passing  for  five 
minutes  as  a  cavalryman.  Did  you  have  to 
put  up  with  dear  Win  all  day? 

Archie.  No.  In  the  evening  we  dined  with 
two  ladies. 

Effie  [slightly  jealous].  Ladies?  Who 
were  they? 

Archie.  A  mother  who  was  just  old  enough 
to  be  a  daughter  and  a  daughter  who  was  al- 
most old  enough  to  be  a  mother. 


94    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Effie.  I  know.  We've  got  two  of  them 
down  here.     Dull  Bright  and  Bright  Dull. 

Archie.     Don't  ask  me  to  meet  them. 

Effie.  I  won't.  What  theatre  did  you  go 
to? 

Archie.  Gaiety.  Very  bright  and  idiotic. 
[His  manner  changes  to  great  fright.^  Some- 
one's coming.     For  God's  sake  go. 

Effie.  Let  them  come.  I  don't  mind.  I 
suppose  I  can  be  here  if  I  like,  can't  I  ? 

Archie  [angrilyl.  No,  you  can't.  You've 
no  right  to  be  here.     Will  you  go  ? 

Effie  [rising].  Not  until  I've  told  you  some- 
thing. I  think  you  might  have  written  to  me. 
It's  awful  to  be  so  lonely. 

Archie.  But  how  could  I  write?  I  came 
back  before  any  letter  could  have  been  deliv- 
ered. 

Effie.  You  ought  to  have  written  before  you 
left.  I  could  have  kept  your  letter  with  me 
all  day.  It  would  have  been  better  than  noth- 
ing. Archie,  don't  go  away  again.  Don't 
leave  me  alone  again.  I  can't  bear  it.  If  you 
love  me  you  must  think  of  me.  [She  speaks 
quietly,  but  in  a  voice  that  trembles  with  im- 
mense emotion.] 

Archie  [catching  her  in  his  arms].  I  do  love 
you.     I  adore  you. 

Effie  [looking  iif  into  his  face].     And  I  love 


ACT  III  95 

you.  I  shall  always  love  you.  You're  every- 
thing in  the  world  to  me.     Archie !     Archie  I 

Archie.  My  darling.  [He  kisses  her  again 
and  again.']  But  go  now.  This  is  not  the 
time  for  seeing  you. 

Effie.     Not  the  time?     Why  not? 

Archie.     You'll  catch  your  death. 

Effie  [with  a  little  laugh,  clinging  to  him]. 
Death,  with  you  come  back?  Why  are  you 
pushing  me  away?     Don't  push  me  away. 

Archie.  Presently.  [He  suddenly  frees 
himself,  takes  the  girl  by  the  arm  and  rushes 
her  across  the  room,  opens  the  cupboard  of 
the  wardrobe,  pushes  her  in  and  shuts  it. 
There  is  a  tap  at  the  door.  Archie  stands  in 
the  middle  of  room,  frightfully  agitated.] 
Who  is  it? 

Mrs.  P.  [without].  It  is  I,  may  I  come 
in? 

Archie  [in  a  hoarse  whisper  to  Effie],  Stay 
where  you  are.  Don't  move.  [Goes  to  door 
and  opens  it.]     Good  morning. 

Mrs.  P.  [entering].  Good  morning. 
Cookie  tells  me  that  you  came  down  by  a  work- 
man's train.  Aren't  you  very  tired?  [She 
goes  to  the  window  and  tidies  the  curtain.] 

Archie.     No,  not  a  bit,  thanks. 

Mrs.  P.  Well  at  any  rate  I  see  you've  had 
tea. 


96    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Archie.  Yes.  Cookie  insisted.  I  was  just 
going  to  change. 

Mrs.  P.     Golf  this  morning? 

Archie.     Yes,  that's  the  notion. 

Mrs.  P.  Effie  is  getting  up,  if  she  isn't  al- 
ready out. 

Archie.  Oh,  that's  good.  If  you  see  her 
will  you  tell  her  that  I  shan't  be  five  minutes? 

Mrs.  P.     Did  you  have  a  nice  day  ? 

Archie.     Very,  thanks. 

Mrs.  P.  I'm  so  glad.  We  all  missed  you 
very  much.  The  house  seemed  quite  different 
without  you. 

Archie.     I'm  glad  to  be  back. 

Mrs.  P.  Ingoing  ow/].  It's  a  lovely  morning. 
l^The  instant  she  has  left  the  room  Archie  shuts 
the  door,  goes  quickly  to  the  wardrobe  and 
throws  it  open."] 

Archie.  Go  to  your  room  at  once  I  Do  you 
hear? 

Effie  [with  a  blaze  of  anger].  I'll  go  to  my 
room  when  I'm  ready,  not  a  momen*:  before. 

Archie.     If  you  don't  go  now,  I'll  go. 

Effie.  Why  should  I  go  ?  I've  not  finished 
speaking  to  you  yet. 

Archie.  If  you've  got  anything  more  to  say 
come  down  with  me  to  your  mother's  room  and 
say  it  before  her. 

Effie      Is  tamping     her     foot'].     I      won't. 


ACT  III  97 

What's  the  good  of  that.  I  can  see  you  before 
people  any  time.  That's  what  I'm  so  sick  of. 
I  want  to  speak  to  you  alone  and  I  will.  [^She 
throws  her  arms  round  his  neck.'] 

Archie  [flinging  her  off].  Don't  do  that 
again.  I  can't  stand  it.  [Effie  bursts  into  a 
passion  of  tears  and  flings  herself  on  her  knees 
at  the  side  of  the  bed]. 

Archie.  Oh,  God  I  \He  bends  down  over 
her  and  tries  to  pick  her  up.]  Darling  .  .  , 
darling. 

Effie  [sobbing].  It's  no  use.  It's  too  late 
.  .  .  it's  too  late. 

Archie.     How  d'you  mean?  .  .  .  too  late? 

Effie.     You  don't  love  me.     You  hate  me. 

Archie.  I  don't  love  you.  .  .  .  You  don't 
know  what  you  are  saying.  [The  boy  is  shak- 
ing all  over.] 

Effie.  I  do  know.  I  know  that  you  loathe 
me.  I  sicken  you.  You  slip  away  whenever 
you  see  me  coming.  I  can't  even  take  your 
arm  without  making  you  shudder.  Do  you 
think  I  can't  see  ?  Do  you  think  I  go  about  as 
blind  as  a  bat?  What's  the  matter  with  me? 
What  have  I  done  to  you? 

Archie.     Effie. 

Effie  [springing  up].  Tell  me.  Tell  me. 
...  I  must  know.  ...  I  must.  It's  .  .  . 
killing  me.     Can't  you  see  that  it's  killing  me? 


98    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Archie  [putting  his  arms  round  her'\.  Oh, 
my  dear. 

Effie.  Oh,  Archie,  Archie,  I  love  you.  I 
love  you.  I  love  you  more  than  life,  more 
than  my  father  and  mother,  more  than  I  know 
and  you  love  me.  You  do  love  me.  You'll 
always  love  me.  You  can't  help  it  any  more 
than  I  can.  I  know  that.  I  am  happy  about 
that.  That's  most  awfully  good.  But  what 
hurts  me  more  than  I  can  bear  is  the  new  way 
you  have  of  keeping  away  from  me,  for  your 
work.  I  want  you  to  work.  I  want  you  to  do 
big  things,  but  I  don't  want  you  to  love  work 
more  than  you  love  me.  I'm  .  .  .  Oh,  I'm 
too  frightfully  jealous  of  everything  that  keeps 
you  away  from  me.  I  must  have  something  of 
you.  I  must  feel  your  arms  round  me  some- 
times to  keep  me  alive.  If  you  told  me  that 
you  had  been  keeping  out  of  my  way  because 
you  don't  love  me,  I  should  laugh.  It  isn't 
possible  for  you  not  to  love  me.  You're  doing 
it  for  some  other  reason  and  I'm  going  to  know 
it  now.     [Enter  Harry.^ 

Harry  [cheerfully^.  I  say,  Archie  .  .  .  [he 
draws  up.  As  he  sees  the  two  young  people 
a  look  of  terror  comes  into  his  face]. 

Archie  {under  his  breath,  recoiling  from 
Effie].     Good  God! 

Effie  [still  emotional  hut  speaking  simply  and 


ACT  III  99 

without  any  alarm'\.     Good  morning,  Father. 

Harry  [hoarsely  to  Effie'].  Go  to  your 
room. 

Effie  [surprised].     Father! 

Harry  [louder  and  sternly].  Go  to  your 
room !  [Effie  looks  wonderingly  from  one 
man  to  the  other,  turns  and  goes  quietly  out 
unashamed  and  unselfconscious.  Nothing  is 
said  until  the  door  closes.] 

Archie  [bursting  out].     I  swear  to  you  .  .  . 

Harry.  Shut  the  door.  [Archie  does  so.] 
Come  here.  [Archie  obeys  orders.  He 
stands  up  straight  and  fearless  looking  straight 
at  Harry.  Harry's  lips  are  set  tight.  His 
nostrils  are  distended.  He  looks  like  a  man 
whose  blood  is  surging  with  rage  and  indigna- 
tion, but  who  is  fighting  hard  to  remain  master 
of  himself.]  What  was  my  daughter  doing  in 
your  room  ? 

Archie.     Saying  good  morning. 

Harry.     Did  you  call  her  in  ? 

Archie  [after  hesitation].     No. 

Harry.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  she 
came  in  on  her  own  account? 

Archie  [after  further  hesitation].     Yes. 

Harry.  Is  it  the  usual  thing  for  you  and  my 
daughter  to  make  free  of  each  other's  rooms? 

Archie.     No,  sir. 

Harry  [blazing].     Tell  me  the  truth. 


100     THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Archie.     I  am  telling  the  truth. 

Harry.  Will  you  swear  to  me  that  Effie  has 
never  been  into  your  bedroom  before,  either  at 
night,  or  in  the  early  morning? 

Archie  [unhesitatingly].     Yes. 

Harry.  I  don't  believe  you.  ...  I  can't 
believe  you.  You  lied  to  me  once.  How  can 
I  rely  on  your  speaking  the  truth  now? 

Archie  [staggered].  What!  .  .  .  But  I 
give  you  my  word  of  honour. 

Harry  {unable  to  control  himself].  Hon- 
our? Honour?  What  sort  of  honour  is 
yours  that  allows  you  to  live  in  the  house  of  a 
man  whose  implicit  trust  you  have  won,  and 
tempt  his  daughter  into  your  bedroom? 

Archie  [passionately].  You  have  no  right 
to  say  that.  I  ought  not  to  have  let  Effie  come 
in,  but  we  love  each  other  and  .  .  . 

Harry.     You  love  each  other? 

Archie.     Yes. 

Harry.     And  what  then? 

Archie.  It's  perfectly  natural  that  we  should 
like  saying  a  few  words  alone.  It's  all  my 
fault  and  I'm  sorry.  But  you've  no  right  to 
doubt  my  word  when  I  tell  you  that  Effie  only 
came  in  to  hear  what  I'd  done  yesterday. 

Harry  [seizing  the  hoy's  shoulders].  I  don't 
want  to  doubt  your  word.     I'd  give  a  year  of 


ACT  III  loi 

my  life  to  believe  you,  but  you  lied  to  me  once 
already  this  morning. 

Archie  [twisting  away:  hurt  to  the  soul]. 
Once  .  .  .  once  !  I  told  you  why  I  lied  to  you 
then.  I  told  you  because  you  made  me  think 
that  you'd  never  suspect  me  as  all  the  others 
have  done.  But  you  do  suspect  me  .  .  .  even 
you. 

Harry.  Yes,  yes.  I  do  suspect  you.  I 
must  suspect  you.  Thinking  that  I  am  out  of 
the  house,  you  call  Effie  into  your  room  out  of 
her  bed. 

Archie.     I  didn't  call  her. 

Harry.     Tell  me  the  truth. 

Archie  [like  a  wounded  animal].  I  have 
told  you  the  truth,  but  only  half  of  it.  Now 
you  shall  have  it  all.  You  deserve  it.  You 
may  call  me  a  liar  if  you  like.  What  does  it 
matter?  No  one  will  see  me  in  East  Brenton 
again  after  this  morning  as  long  as  I  live.  [He 
chokes.] 

Harry  [still  angry  hut  with  a  note  of  fear 
in  his  voice].     Go  on. 

Archie  [in  a  didl  voice].  Effie  waited  in 
my  room  from  twelve  o'clock  last  night  until 
four  o'clock  this  morning.  She  came  into  it 
again  this  morning  when  she  heard  me  come 
back. 


102     THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Harry.  Was  she  hiding  when  I  found  you 
unpacking  ? 

Archie.     No. 

Harry.     You  are  lying. 

Archie  [^shivering  as  though  struck  by  a 
whipl.  Very  well  then,  I'm  lying.  It's  no 
good  telling  you  the  truth.  But  listen  to  this. 
She  came  in  directly  you'd  gone.  She  was  in 
the  room  when  Mrs.  Pemberton  came  in.  I 
hid  her  in  the  cupboard. 

Harry.  Why?  ...  If  you  had  nothing  to 
be  ashamed  of? 

Archie.     Because  I  wanted  to  protect  Effie. 

Harry.     You  ask  me  to  believe  that? 

Archie  [^shouting  and  on  the  verge  of  a  hreak- 
down~\.  I  ask  you  to  believe  nothing.  I  don't 
care  now  what  you  choose  to  believe.  I'm  just 
telling  you  the  truth  to  show  you  what  I  might 
have  done  because  no  one  has  seen  fit  to  tell 
Effie  that  she  is  a  woman. 

Harry  [furious'\.  You  prove  yourself  to  be 
lying  and  to  be  trying  to  shield  yourself  behind 
Effie  by  saying  that.  Effie  has  been  told  that 
she  is  a  woman  and  what  it  means. 

Archie  [with  a  cry].  Oh,  no.  That's  im- 
possible. You  may  think  that  she's  been  told 
but  she  hasn't.  Good  God,  do  you  know  what 
you  imply  by  saying  that  she's  been  told?  .  .  . 
I  can't  say  it.     I  can't  even  think  it. 


> 


ACT  III  103 


Harry.     Say  it  .  .  .  say  it! 

Archie.  You  imply  that  Effie  was  not  igno- 
rant but  was  tempting  me. 

Harry  [springing  at  the  hoy'\.  How  dare 
you  I  [He  shakes  him  and  flings  him  away. 
Archie  staggers  against  the  door.  He  gathers 
himself  up  and  points  a  shaking  finger  at 
Harry.l 

Archie  [thickly  and  passionately'].  Blame 
yourself  for  this.  Blame  your  wife.  Effie 
never  knew  what  she  was  doing.  She  knows 
nothing.  If  I  hadn't  adored  her  and  hadn't 
been  trying  for  all  I  was  worth  to  play  the 
game  for  your  sake,  I  should  have  gone  to 
her  room  before  to-day  and  I  should  have 
locked  my  door  this  morning.  I  wanted  to. 
.  .  .  Oh,  my  God,  how  I  wanted  to !  .  .  .  and 
she  wanted  to  stay  although  she  didn't  know 
why.  If  she  had  stayed  we  should  not  have 
been  to  blame.  You  would, —  you  and  your 
wife.  .  .  .  Good-bye.  You  send  me  straight 
to  hell.  [He  gives  a  great  cry  and  lurches  to 
the  door,  opens  it,  goes  out  and  slams  it  behind 
him.     Harry  remains  standing  upright,  rigid.] 


[Curtain.] 


ACT  IV 

[^Harry's  den.  No  time  has  passed  between 
the  fall  of  the  curtain  on  the  last  Act  and 
its  rise  on  this  one.  The  sun  is  streaming 
into  the  windows.  Cookie,  on  her  knees, 
is  polishing  the  floor  with  beeswax.  She 
is  singing  softly  to  herself.  The  song  is 
comic.  Collins  passes  the  window  which 
is  open  from  R.  to  L.] 

Collins   [patronisingly].     Morning,   Cookie. 

Cookie.     Oh,  'ow  you  made  me  jump ! 

Collins  [who  has  disappeared  and  returned 
and  is  now  leaning  on  the  window  sill^.  Want 
to  know  anything  fer  to-day,  old  lady? 

Cookie.     Old  yerself!     What  d' yer  mean? 

Collins.  Well,  have  yer  fergot  that  it's  the 
Hascot  gold  cup? 

Cookie.     What,  again? 

Collins.     What  d'yer  mean,  again? 

Cookie.  Well,  it  only  seems  three  weeks  ago 
that  you  took  my  two  bob,  put  it  on  Bonnie 
Lad  and  told  me  I'd  gone  down.  Lord,  'ow 
time  flies ! 

Collins.  I'm  artsin'  you  about  'orse  racin' 
104 


ACT  ly  105 

not  philosophy.  You  know  young  Halbert 
Honor? 

Cookie.  'Im  as  looks  after  the  'osses  of 
the  gent  with  the  swivel  eye? 

Collins.  That's  'im.  Well,  'is  brother  is 
in  a  racing  stable  and  'e  sent  Halbert  a  postcard 
tellln'  'im  to  put  'is  shirt  on  "  Father  Ste- 
phen." 

Cookie.  If  Albert  chooses  to  'and  his  un- 
derclothing to  a  bookmaker,  there's  no  reason 
why  I  should. 

Collins.  Don't  you  be  'asty.  This  is  the 
best  thing  In  racing. 

Cookie  [rubbing  energetically^.  They  all 
are  until  you  see  'em  sixth  in  the  stop  press. 
Don't  you  try  and  seduce  me,  Freddy. 

Collins  [with  a  loud  laugh].  Not  'arf! 
I've  'ad  some !  Now  look  'ere,  go  'alves  with 
me  in  five  bob  to  win. 

Cookie.     What  should  I  lose?     Five  bob? 

Collins.  You  don't  know  much  about  'rith- 
metlc. 

Cookie.  Maybe.  But  I  know  a  good  deal 
about  Fred  Collins. 

Collins  [touchily'].  'Ere,  are  we  talkin' 
sense  or  not? 

Cookie.  Not  I  You  go  and  cut  some  lut- 
tuses  for  breakfast  and  leave  'orse  racing  ter 
mugs. 


io6     THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Collins.  Put  the  money  on  nar  at  six  ter 
one  termorrer  mornin'  after  lunch  we  divide 
a  matter  of  thirty  bob.  'Aven't  yer  got  no 
use  for  fifteen  shillings? 

Cookie.  'Alf  a  crown  at  the  bottom  of  my 
pocket  is  worth  six  'alf  crowns  still  running. 

Collins.  All  right.  'Ave  it  yer  own  way. 
Don't  say  I  never  give  yer  a  chanst.  [^Enter 
Mrs.  Pemberton.] 

Mrs.  P.     Good  morning,  Cookie. 

Cookie.     Good  morning,  mum. 

Mrs.  P.     Good  morning,  Collins. 

Collins  [speciously].  Good  morning  to  you, 
mum.  I  was  just  tellin'  Cook  as  'ow  I  can  get 
'er  a  nice  dish  of  vegetable  marrers. 

Cookie.  Liar!  [She  coughs  to  hide  the 
remark.^ 

Mrs.  P.  That  will  be  very  nice,  Collins.  I 
thought  I  saw  some  in  the  garden  about  a  week 
ago. 

Collins.     Ah,  but  the  frost  nipped  them  off. 

Cookie.     Frost ! 

Mrs.  P.  Oh,  and  tell  me,  Fred,  we  ought 
not  to  be  running  short  of  peas  already,  surely. 

Collins.  Well,  mum,  you  see  it's  like  this. 
Last  year  was  wet  and  there  was  only  four 
mouths  in  the  'ouse.  Consequence  was  peas 
panned  out  well.  Now  this  year  we've  'ad  a 
superabundance  of  sun  and  Mr.  Archibald  —  I 


ACT  IV  107 

don't  know  whether  you've  noticed  it,  mum,  but 
that  Mr.  Archibald  'e's  a  wonder  for  peas. 

Mrs.  P.     I  see,  Fred. 

Cookie.     Do  yer? 

Collins.  And  don't  forget  to  take  this  Into 
account,  mum.  The  walls  of  this  place  Is  low, 
and  there's  lots  of  thieves  about. 

Cookie.     Ah ! 

Mrs.  P.  Oh,  but  no  one  would  steal  from 
this  garden. 

Collins.  Well,  mum,  you'd  think  not,  but 
where  a  nice  line  o'  Marrerfats  is  concerned 
'uman  nature  is  very  frail.  I  make  no  accusa- 
tions but  I  lay  down  the  'int.  [Cookie 
chuckles.  Collins  leans  forward  aggressively 
eyeing  her  hotly. ^      Eh? 

Cookie  [innocently'].     Eh? 

Collins.     Oh,  I  thought  you  spoke. 

Cookie.     Me  ?     Oh,  lor  no. 

Mrs.  P.     Thank  you,  Collins. 

Collins.  Thank  you,  mum.  [He  looks  at 
Cookie  and  his  lips  move  silently.     He  goes 

Mrs.  P.  [with  a  smile'].  He  has  a  large 
family,  but  he's  a  good  workman. 

Cookie.  The  wheelbarrers  of  stuff  that  goes 
out  of  this  place  before  any  of  us  is  abart.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  P.  [dusting  the  room].  We  don't 
know  that,  Cook. 


io8     THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Cookie.  No,  but  we  guess  It,  and  we  'ear 
the  barren 

Mrs.  P.  After  all,  this  Is  a  large  garden, 
and  the  temptation  to  take  things  home  is  very 
great,  and  Fred's  family  Is  a  growing  one. 

Cookie.  Remarkable  'ow  well  It  grows  on 
our  vegetables.  Mind,  I'm  not  saying  'e's  a 
thief. 

Mrs.  P.  Ah  I  I'm  glad  you're  doing  the 
floors.  Cookie.     They  wanted  it  badly. 

Cookie.  Since  that  boy  came  with  'Is  golf 
nails,  Vs  played  old  jimmy  with  these  'ere 
floors.  But  there!  'E's  a  nice  young  feller 
and  I  can  spare  him  a  little  elbow  grease. 

Mrs.  P.  But  you're  using  beeswax,  aren't 
you? 

Cookie.     Can't  you  smell  It? 

Mrs.  P.  Oh,  and  Cook!  Before  I  forget 
it,  I  want  to  ask  you  about  the  airing  of  the 
clothes. 

Cookie  [on  the  defensive'].     What  about  It? 

Mrs.  P.  Well,  I  went  into  Mr.  Archie's 
room  yesterday  when  he  was  away,  and  I  saw 
that  somehow  or  other  the  wash  basket  with 
all  his  clean  things  had  found  its  way  to  his 
room.  I  don't  think  that  they  had  been  hang- 
ing In  front  of  the  kitchen  fire  at  all. 

Cookie.     They  hadn't. 

Mrs.  P.     Oh,  Cookie !     You  know  how  care- 


ACT  IV  109 

ful  one  ought  to  be,  and  how  easy  it  is  to  get 
pneumonia. 

Cookie.  Well,  I  was  going  to  put  'im  at  the 
bottom  of  his  shelves  so  that  by  the  time  they'd 
worked  'emselves  up  to  the  top,  they'd  a  been 
aired  automatic.     It's  the  latest  thing. 

Mrs.  P.  If  you  don't  mind,  Cookie,  I  think 
that  we'll  remain  old-fashioned. 

Cookie.  Well,  just  as  you  like,  mum.  I 
only  tried  to  move  with  the  times. 

Mrs.  P.  [polishing  a  silver  cup].  There  I 
I  forgot  to  order  the  tea  from  the  stores  yes- 
terday for  my  old  women. 

Cookie.  Go  on  forgetting,  mum.  Your  old 
women,  unbeknownst  to  you,  exchanges  those 
packets  of  tea  for  tots  of  gin. 

Mrs.  P.  [virtuously  indignant}.  Cook  I 
I've  never  heard  you  say  anything  so  unchar- 
itable I 

Cookie.  Well,  mum,  facts  Is  facts,  you 
know,  call  'em  what  you  like,  and  after  all  said 
and  done,  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  the  gin 
was  better  for  'em  than  the  tea. 

Mrs.  P.  [very  carefully  dusting  mantelpiece'\. 
We  may  as  well  settle  about  dinner  now.  Cookie. 

Cookie  [rising  and  standing  in  a  judicial  at- 
titude by  the  table  C].  The  important  ques- 
tion of  the  day. 

Mrs.  P.     What  did  we  have  on  Monday? 


no    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Cookie.  Mutton,  'ot  for  dinner,  cold  for 
Tuesday's  lunch. 

Mrs,  P.  And  what  did  we  have  for  Tues- 
day's dinner? 

Cookie.  Ribs  of  beef  'ot.  Cold  for  to- 
day's luncheon. 

Mrs.  P.  And  to-day's  Thursday.  Let  us 
see  if  we  can't  think  of  something  quite  orig- 
inal, Cookie. 

Cookie.     Something  for  a  change,  eh? 

Mrs.  P.     Yes,  something  for  a  change. 

Cookie.  Well,  then,  let's  'ave  'ot  mutton  to- 
night and  a  nice  bit  of  beef  to-morrow  night. 

Mrs.  P.  Oh,  the  eternal  round  of  mutton 
and  beef.  [She  laughs.']  Very  well.  Cook, 
mutton  and  beef  then.  We  ought  to  be  very 
thankful  to  get  them. 

Cookie.  Mr.  Archie  don't  mind  what  'e  eats. 
The  Vicar  never  knows.  Miss  Effie,  when  she 
don't  like  the  meat,  makes  it  up  on  pudding, 
and  you  and  me  just  eat  ter  live,  so  it  ain't  a 
difficult  'ouse  to  cater  for. 

Mrs.  P.     What  door  was  that  banging? 

Cookie.     Mr.  Archie's,  I  should  think. 

Mrs.  P.  I've  never  heard  him  bang  his  door 
before. 

Cookie.  'E's  in  a  mood  this  morning. 
Goin'  to  London  yesterday  unsettled  'im.     Oh, 


ACT  IV  III! 

lor,  my  kettle.  iShe  darts  out  of  the  room. 
Mrs.  P.  goes  to  window,  straightens  the 
cushions  in  the  window  seat  and  leans  out.'\ 

Mrs.  P.  [to  Bill,  who  is  unseen].  Bill  I 
How  often  have  you  been  told  not  to  bury  your 
bones  at  the  feet  of  the  rose  trees.  .  .  .  No, 
no !  don't  dig  It  up  again.  Leave  it  there  now. 
Why  bury  it  at  all?  There's  no  other  dog  in 
the  place.      [Enter  Cookie.] 

Cookie.     All  over  my  clean  grate. 

Mrs.  P.  I'm  afraid  I  kept  you  about, 
Cookie.  I'm  sorry.  Now  for  the  drawing- 
room.     Is  Miss  Effie  down  yet? 

Cookie.  'Aven't  seen  nothing  of  her. 
\_Mrs.  P.  goes  out.] 

Cookie  [going  to  window].  Freddie!  .  .  . 
[She  whistles.] 

Collins  [off].     'Ullo! 

Cookie.     A  nice  cupper  tea  ready  for  you. 

Collins  [off].  I'm  a  comin'.  [Cookie  waits 
at  window  until  Collins  appears.] 

Cookie.     Fred ! 

Collins.     Eh? 

Cookie.  I'll  go  'alf  a  crown  with  you  on 
that  'orse.     Ascot  comes  but  once  a  year. 

Collins.     Good  for  you. 

Cookie.  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Fred.  'Aving 
lived  twenty  years  in  a  vicarage  makes  one  feel 
regular  reckless  at  times.     [Enter  Harry.     He 


112     THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

comes  in  slowly,  with  a  set,  stern  face.  On  his 
entrance  Fred  disappears  and  Cookie  pretends 
to  he  busy.  Harry  goes  to  fireplace  and  stands 
with  his  hack  to  it.~\ 

Cookie.  A  lovely  morning,  sir.  [Harry 
makes  no  reply.  Cookie  darts  a  quick  look  at 
him,  picks  up  her  cleaning  materials,  and  goes 
softly  towards  door.^ 

Harry.     Is  Mrs.  Pemberton  down? 

Cookie.  Down  this  'arf  hour  sir,  and  'ard 
at  it  as  usual. 

Harry.  Ask  her  to  be  kind  enough  to  come 
to  me  here. 

Cookie.  I  will,  sir.  \_She  throws  another 
searching,  perturbed  look  at  Harry  and  goes 
of.  Harry  remains  standing,  looking  straight 
ahead.  After  a  pause  Mrs.  Pemberton  enters 
cheerfully.'] 

Mrs.  P.     Do  you  want  me,  dear? 

Harry  [hoarsely'].  Yes.  Please  come  in 
and  shut  the  door. 

Mrs.  P.  [looks  anxious,  returns  to  door  and 
shuts  it,  then  goes  quickly  to  Harry's  side  and 
puts  her  hands  on  Harry's  shoulders].  Is  any- 
thing the  matter? 

Harry  [moving  away  from  her].     Don't! 

Mrs.  P.  [aghast].     Harry! 

Harry.  For  the  first  time  in  our  married  life 
you  have  broken  faith  with  me. 


ACT  IV  113 

Mrs.  P.     /have? 

Harry.  Yes.  If  you  had  broken  faith  with 
me  before  it  might  not  have  mattered,  but  in 
this  instance  you  have  brought  tragedy  into  this 
quiet  house. 

Mrs.  P.  [gasping^ .  Harry !  What  have  I 
done? 

Harry.  It  isn't  what  you've  done.  It  is 
what  you've  left  undone !  Is  there  any  need 
for  me  to  tell  you  what  this  is  ? 

Mrs.  P.  [with  a  premonition'].     Yes,  I  .  .  . 

Harry.  You  said  that  you  would  speak  to 
Effie.  You  promised  that  you  would  speak  to 
Effie. 

Mrs.  P.  It  was  so  difficult.  I  —  I  tried, 
I  — 

Harry.     There  is  no  excuse. 

Mrs.  P.     There  is  an  excuse.  .  .  . 

Harry.  There  is  no  excuse.  We  went 
deeply  into  the  matter.  It  seemed  to  us  to  be 
an  unfulfilled  duty.  You  agreed  to  speak,  you 
prevented  me  from  speaking. 

Mrs.  P.  Again  and  again  I  tried,  and  I 
couldn't,  I  couldn't.     I  will  speak  to-morrow. 

Harry.  The  time  to  speak  was  yesterday, — 
to-morrow  will  be  too  late. 

Mrs.  P.  [startled].     Too  late! 

Harry.     Yes.     Too  late. 

Mrs.  P.     What  do  you  mean? 


114    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Harry.     Exactly  what  I  say. 

Mrs.  P.     Harry  I  .  .  .  Harry! 

Harry.  When  I  came  back  just  now,  I  found 
Effie  In  Archie  Graham's  bedroom. 

Mrs.  P.  [with  a  cry^.     Oh  I 

Harry.  He  said  that  EfEe  came  to  his  room 
without  being  called  by  him.  He  said  that  she 
was  hiding  when  you  went  into  it.  He  said 
that  she  waited  for  him  in  his  room  from  twelve 
o'clock  last  night  until  four  this  morning.  He 
told  me  that  they  love  each  other.  He  lied 
to  me  once,  he  is  lying  again.  .  .  .  The  man 
who  ruined  Mary  Ann  blamed  her  ignorance. 
Archie  Graham  blames  Effie's  ignorance.  He 
blames  you  and  me  .  .  .  and  oh,  my  God,  he 
has  the  right.  We  have  given  Mary  Ann  a 
sister  in  Effie. 

Mrs.  P.  [weepingl.  What  are  we  to  do? 
What  are  we  to  do? 

Harry.  Go  about  our  duties.  There  is 
nothing  to  be  done.  Yesterday  and  to-day  are 
no  longer  ours,  there  is  only  to-morrow.  To- 
morrow is  ours  and  with  God's  help  we  will 
see  that  there  shall  be  no  more  ignorance  among 
young  girls.  What  if  Effie  had  been  Mary 
Ann,  I  said.  Effie !  [He  puts  his  hands  over 
his  face.'] 

Effie  [rushing  in  wildly].  Father!  What 
have  you  said  to  Archie  ? 


ACT  IV  115 

Harry.     Why  ? 

Effie.  He's  gone  Into  his  room  and  won't 
answer  me.     He  has  locked  his  door. 

Harry  \_for  the  first  time  showing  great 
emotion  and  anger'\.  Why  lock  his  door 
now? 

Effie.  I  don't  understand.  Why  are  you 
like  this?  Why  is  everything  so  different? 
Why  is  mother  crying? 

Harry.     Ask  her. 

Effie.  Mother !  {^She  goes  swiftly  to  Mrs. 
P.  and  takes  her  in  her  arms.'\ 

Mrs.  P.     Oh,  my  baby  I 

Effie.  What  is  it?  What's  happened? 
Why  don't  you  tell  me?  Mother,  why  can't 
you  speak? 

Mrs.  P.  I  wish  I  had  spoken.  ...  I  wish 
I  had.  [She  releases  herself  and  sinks  into 
chair  by  table  and  puts  her  head  down  upon 
her  arms.] 

Effie  [turning  to  her  father'\.  Father,  tell 
me  what  all  this  means.  You  made  Archie 
treat  me  like  this,  you. 

Harry.     Archie  Graham  has  lied  to  me. 

Effie.     What  about? 

Harry.     Himself  and  you. 

Effie.     I  don't  understand. 

Harry.  He  said  that  he  and  you  love  each 
other. 


ii6     THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Effie.  Is  that  what's  the  matter?  Of  course 
we  love  each  other. 

Harry  [eagerly].     That  is  true,  then? 

Effie.  As  true  as  life.  Of  course  we  love 
each  other.  I  loved  him  when  he  first  came. 
I  loved  him  the  moment  I  saw  him.  I  found 
it  out  this  morning  when  he  came  back. 

Harry   [quickly].     This  morning? 

Effie.  Yes.  I'd  missed  him  so.  Surely 
that  hasn't  made  you  like  this? 

Harry.  No.  That  was  natural  enough. 
That  was  only  to  be  expected.     It  isn't  that. 

Effie.  Then  what  is  it?  I  ask  to  know.  If 
Archie  has  done  anything  I  have  a  right  to 
know.  He  is  mine  and  I  must  share  his  trou- 
bles. Fetch  Archie.  [She  waves  her  hand  im- 
periously.'] 

Harry.  No.  Leave  Archie  where  he  is. 
I  want  to  speak  to  you.  .  .  .  You  say  that  you 
found  out  this  morning  for  the  first  time  that 
you  love  that  boy? 

Effie.     Yes. 

Harry.  Has  he  ever  spoken  of  love  to  you 
before  this  morning? 

Effie.  No.  He  wouldn't  have  said  a  word 
this  morning.     It  was  my  fault  he  said  it  then. 

Harry.     Your  fault?     How? 

Effie.  After  he  got  the  telegram  from  his 
friend  he's  been  different.     He  avoided  me  all 


ACT  IV  117 

that  evening.  He  didn't  look  at  me  and  he 
didn't  say  good  night. 

Harry.     Go  on. 

Effie.  When  I  went  into  his  room  thia  morn- 
ing ..  . 

Harry  [quickly'].     Did  he  call  you? 

Ejjie.  No.  He  didn't  know  I  was  awake, 
but  I  heard  him  talking  to  you.  I  went  in  di- 
rectly you'd  gone.  I  couldn't  wait  till  I  was 
dressed.  I'd  been  waiting  so  long.  He  tried 
to  send  me  away.  He  did  nothing  but  try  to 
send  me  away.  It  was  my  only  chance  of  see- 
ing him  alone  and  he  drove  me  to  speak.  1 
won't  have  him  avoid  me.  I  love  him  and  he 
loves  me,  and  I'm  a  woman,  not  a  child  any 
longer.  Mayn't  I  think  about  my  life  now  and 
my  feelings?  I  tell  you  we  love  each  other. 
What  have  you  said  to  him  to  make  him  treat 
me  as  though  I  were  poisonous? 

Harry.     Nothing. 

Effie.  Then  what's  the  matter  with  me? 
Why  has  he  locked  his  door?  Why  won't  he 
answer  me  when  I  call? 

Harry  [taking  Effie  in  his  arms  and  kissing 
her].  Go  with  your  mother,  my  little  girl,  and 
let  her  make  you  a  woman. 

Effie.     I  don't  understand. 

Harry.  No,  but  you  shall.  [He  goes  to  his 
wife,  picks  up  her  hand  and  kisses  it.]     Oh,  my 


ii8     THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

dear,  let  us  thank  God  for  one  thing.  It  isn't 
too  late.     Take  her  to  your  room. 

Mrs.  P.     Harry!  .  .  .  Come,  darling. 

Harry.  Send  that  boy  to  me  here.  [Mrs. 
P.  puts  her  arm  round  Effie's  waist  and  leads 
her  of.  Harry  goes  to  the  window  and  stands 
looking  out.     Enter  Cookie.'] 

Cookie.  Come  in,  will  yer?  [^Enter  Mrs. 
Lemmins.'] 

Mrs.  L.  I'm  afraid  I  don't  do  right  to  come 
so  early,  sir. 

Harry.  Perfectly  right,  Mrs.  Lemmins. 
Sit  down. 

Mrs.  L.  Thank  you  kindly,  sir.  [Sits. 
Cookie  jerks  her  head  and  goes  off.] 

Harry.     You've  not  told  Mary  Ann? 

Mrs.  L.     No,  sir,  she's  still  asleep. 

Harry.  I'm  glad.  .  .  .  The  funeral  is  at 
twelve  o'clock. 

Mrs.  L.  [chokily].  In  the  .  .  .  church- 
yard, sir? 

Harry.     Where  else? 

Mrs.  L.  Thank  God.  [^She  throws  her 
apron  over  her  head  and  cries.] 

Harry.  Mrs.  Lemmins,  I  want  you  to  do 
something  for  me.  I  want  you  to  be  kind 
enough  to  let  me  ask  to  this  little  funeral  some 
of  the  mothers  in  the  village.  I  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  them  this  morning  which,  if  I 


ACT  IV  119 

had  been  a  better  servant  of  God,  I  should  have 
said  to  them  years  ago. 

Mrs.  L.  [huskily'].  Must  I  have  my  dis- 
grace known  to  everybody,  sir? 

Harry.  Yes.  Your  disgrace  and  mine  must 
be  made  known.  The  moment  has  arrived 
when  I  have  got  to  deal  honestly  with  the  truth. 
In  the  little  coffin  lies  the  body  of  a  baby  without 
a  name.  It  is  called  the  child  of  sin,  and  it  is 
wrongly  called  so.  It  is  not  the  child  of  sin, 
but  of  ignorance,  and  for  its  birth  you  and 
every  one  of  the  mothers  who  are  coming  with 
us  to  the  churchyard  are  to  blame,  and  I  as 
much  as  any.  Its  mother  is  a  child.  It  will 
be  said  of  her  that  she  has  gone  wrong.  She 
will  be  pointed  at  and  sneered  at  and  giggled 
at,  and  a  stigma  will  hang  to  her  dress  like  a 
burr.  [Airs.  Lemmtns  cries  more  loudly.] 
But  she  is  blameless.  The  one  who  is  to  blame 
is  her  mother. 

Mrs.  L.     Me,  sir?     Oh! 

Harry.  Yes.  Mrs.  Lemmins,  you.  If  you 
had  told  poor  little  Mary  Ann  the  reason  of 
her  motherhood,  a  spotless  life  would  not  have 
been  stained.  God  would  never  have  heard 
the  agonised  cry  of  a  childless  mother  and  this 
little  grave  would  never  have  been  dug.  Oh, 
my  dear  mother,  for  God's  sake,  Who  loves 
little  children,  get  all  the  mothers  and  the  future 


I20    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

• 

mothers  that  you  know  to  tell  their  children  the 
truth.  Implore  them  never  to  forget  this  little 
grave  for  which  we  are  all  responsible.  Show 
them  that  if  they  don't  wish  their  girls  to  go 
through  what  Mary  Ann  has  suffered  they  must 
not  lie  or  quibble  to  spare  themselves.  If  they 
do  there  will  be  a  grave  in  their  lives  too. 
Never  let  them  forget  this  little  grave.  While 
their  daughters  are  still  young  tell  them  to  put 
their  arms  round  them  and  let  them  know  what 
it  means  to  be  a  woman.  .  .  .  Help  me  to  let 
innocence  remain  in  their  homes  by  thrusting 
out  ignorance  and  to  keep  their  children  modest 
by  permitting  themselves  no  false  modesty. 
You  and  I  must  never  let  any  woman  in  this 
village  forget  our  little  grave.  [Collins  ap- 
pears at  window  with  a  large  bunch  of  lilies.'] 

Collins.     Lilies,  sir. 

Harry  [goes  to  window,  takes  lilies,  nods  to 
Collins,  who  disappears,  and  returns  with  them 
to  Mrs.  Lemmins].     Till  twelve  o'clock. 

Mrs.  L.  [rising].     Thank  you,  sir. 

Harry.     Take  these. 

Mrs.  L.     Yus,  sir. 

Harry.  God  bless  you.  [He  goes  to  door, 
opens  it  and  stands  there.  Mrs.  L.  smothers 
a  sob  and  as  she  goes  out  she  bobs  to  Harry. 
Harry  shuts  the  door  and  comes  down  stage. 
Archie  appears  R.  of  window.     His  head  is 


ACT  IV  121 

hent  down  and  is  hurrying  past.  Harry  makes 
a  dash  at  the  window  and  catches  the  boy  by 
the  arm.l 

Harry.     Where  are  you  going? 

Archie  \_shoutinff'].     Let  me  go. 

Harry.     I  won't  let  you  go. 

Archie.     Let  me  go  I  tell  you. 

Harry.     Come  into  my  room. 

Archie.     I  won't. 

Harry.  I  order  you  into  my  room.  [The 
boy  instinctively  obeys.'\ 

Harry.     Stand  up.     Look  at  me. 

Archie  [bursting  ow/].  Let  me  go.  You 
don't  believe  in  me.  You.  I  can't  live  over 
that. 

Harry.  I  do  believe  in  you,  old  man.  .  .  . 
I  do.  I  believe  every  word  that  you  said. 
You  behaved  like  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of 
honour  and  I  thank  you.  Forgive  me. 
[Archie  peers  up  into  Harry's  face,  gives  a 
great  sob  and  puts  his  hands  over  his  face. 
Flings  himself  into  a  chair  and  bursts  out  cry- 
ing. Harry  goes  to  door  and  locks  it,  goes  to 
the  window  and  shuts  it,  crosses  to  the  boy  and 
stands  over  him.'] 

Harry.  Old  fellow,  I  did  you  a  great  in- 
justice. I  am  as  bad  as  the  others  with  whom 
you've  been.  You  are  a  better  man  than  I  am, 
Archie  Graham.     I  will  take  a  lesson  from  you. 


122     THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

Archie.     For  God's  sake  don't  say  that. 

Harry.  It  is  our  fault.  Not  Effie's  and  not 
yours  that  you  were  put  to  the  test.  You've 
won.     Please  forgive  me. 

Archie  [^springing  up  and  giving  his  hands  to 
Harry^.  Oh  ...  sir!  [^Harry  puts  his  arms 
round  the  boy's  shoulders  and  pats  them,  holds 
him  at  arm's  length  and  looks  at  him.  As  his 
right  hand  goes  down  to  grasp  the  hoy's  left 
hand,  it  comes  into  contact  with  something  hard 
in  the  hoy's  pocket.'] 

Harry  [recoiling].  What's  that  thing  in 
your  pocket? 

Archie.  Nothing,  It  ...  it  doesn't  mat- 
ter now. 

Harry  [frightfully  agitated].  Give  it  to 
me. 

Archie.  I'd  rather  not.  Don't  ask  me  for 
it. 

Harry  [holding  out  a  shaking  hand].  Give 
it  to  me  I  tell  you.  [Archie  hesitates,  puts  his 
hand  in  his  pocket  and  brings  out  a  pistol. 
Harry  springs  forward,  catches  the  boy  by  the 
wrist  and  takes  the  pistol  from  his  hand.] 

Harry  [hoarsely].  You  were  going  ...  to 
use  this  .  .  . 

Archie.  You  didn't  believe  me.  I'd  worked 
for  nothing. 


ACT  IV  123 

Harry.  Oh,  my  God.  I  might  have  killed 
this  boy. 

Archie.     Oh,  please  .  .  .  I  .  .  . 

Harry  [holds  the  pistol  out  in  the  palm  of  his 
hand  and  looks  at  it;  in  a  low  voice.']  Sit  down. 
[Archie  sits  at  desk  C.  Harry  stands  very  still 
for  ainoment.     He  looks  old  and  worn.] 

Harry.  I  am  going  to  make  a  confession  to 
you  that  I've  made  to  no  other  living  man  or 
woman.  You  wring  It  out  of  me  by  what 
you've  done  for  me,  and  for  my  wife,  and 
Effie.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember  my  saying  the 
first  day  you  came  here  that  I  hoped  I  should 
never  have  to  tell  you  why  I  went  into  the 
Church  ? 

Archie.     Yes,  but  don't,  please  .  .  . 

Harry.  I  must,  because  I  want  you  to  know 
how  sorry  I  am  for  judging  and  disbelieving  you, 
and  because  I  want  to  remind  myself  of  that 
other  time  when  God  drew  me  up  and  showed, 
me  that  If  a  man  is  without  mercy  he  is  not  fit 
to  be  a  son  of  his  father.  [He  goes  to  his  desk 
and  sits  down,  putting  the  revolver  in  front  of 
him.]  You  once  called  me  splendid.  I  was 
so  splendid  a  fellow  at  Oxford,  with  my  cricket 
blue,  my  presidency  of  the  union,  my  popu- 
larity, my  admiring  set,  my  career  gleaming 
ahead,  that  I  didn't  believe  In  God,  I  believed 


124    THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

only  in  myself.  I  was  so  splendid  that  I  passed 
judgments  on  my  fellows  and  had  no  mercy  for 
weakness  and  broken  words.  /  was  not  weak. 
I  never  broke  my  word.  ...  I  had  a  friend, 
a  Jonathan,  whom  I  loved  and  trusted.  We 
were  together  at  Eton,  in  the  same  college 
at  Oxford.  We  rose  together,  step  by  step, 
in  work  and  out  of  it.  There  was  one  other 
person  besides  myself,  in  whom  I  believed.  It 
was  this  friend.  .  .  .  We  were  both  poor  men, 
soldiers'  sons.  Our  fathers  deprived  them- 
selves of  their  few  luxuries  to  send  us  to  Ox- 
ford. They  were  men  who  looked  to  us  to 
do  well,  but,  above  all,  to  keep  their  names 
bright.  We  were  both  to  be  barristers.  We 
had  our  eyes  on  Parliament.  Ambition  was 
our  fetish.  We  backed  ourselves  to  win.  .  .  . 
It  was  the  custom  of  our  fathers  to  pay  into 
our  bank  all  the  money  it  was  necessary  for  us 
to  have  for  the  year.  In  the  Michaelmas 
term  of  our  third  year  my  friend  came  to  me 
and  told  me  that  his  father  was  in  temporary 
need  of  money.  He  asked  me  to  lend  him, 
to  pass  on  to  his  father,  all  the  money  I  had  to 
see  me  through  my  third  year.  It  would  be 
returned  in  a  fortnight.  I  believed  in  this  man 
and  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  wrote  the 
cheque.  .  .  .  The  fortnight  came  to  an  end. 
The  money  was  not  returned.     I  let  another 


ACT  IV  125 

fortnight  go  by  and  needed  money.  I  was 
forced  to  remind  my  friend  of  his  guarantee. 
.  .  .  He  confessed,  brokenly  and  with  shame, 
that  his  father  had  neither  needed  the  money 
nor  had  it.  TJie  story  was  a  He.  He,  him- 
self, had  needed  the  money  to  pay  racing  debts, 
thinking  that  he  could  get  it  from  an  old  uncle 
to  pay  me  back.  But  the  uncle  had  been  bled 
before.  He  refused  to  be  bled  again.  ...  I 
knew  that  my  father  could  give  me  no  more. 
I  saw  all  my  chances  ruined,  all  that  I  worked 
for  gone  for  nothing.  The  one  way  of  my 
remaining  at  Oxford,  my  forlorn  hope,  was  to 
tell  my  friend's  father  of  his  son's  treachery, 
and  leave  it  to  him  to  make  it  good.  .  .  .  He 
lived  in  Scotland.  I  got  permission  from  the 
authorities  to  go  to  Scotland  on  urgent  business. 
I  left  my  friend,  mercilessly,  well  knowing  that 
the  germ  of  suicide  was  in  his  brain.  .  .  .  Be- 
tween London  and  Rugby  there  was  a  frightful 
accident.  Three  men  in  my  carriage  were 
killed.  I  lay  for  an  hour  unhurt,  pinned  down 
with  wreckage.  ...  In  that  long,  waiting  hour 
God  came  to  me  —  and  when  I  returned  hot 
speed  to  Oxford  and  rushed  to  my  friend's 
room,  I  found  him  lying  face  downwards  on 
the  floor  with  a  bullet  through  his  brain.  \_He 
gives  a  sob.  His  head  bends  low.]  I  gave 
up  my  career  and  became  a  servant  of  God. 


126     THE  BLINDNESS  OF  VIRTUE 

[There  is  a  pause.  Archie  stretches  out  his 
hand  to  lay  it  on  Harry's.  But  he  is  unable 
to  do  so  and  gets  up  quietly  and  bends  over  the 
humbled  man.'\ 

Archie.     Oh,  sir,  I  .  .  . 

Harry  [looking  up].  You  remember  what 
I  said  just  now  about  foundation  stones? 

Archie.  Yes.  I  shall  always  remember 
that. 

Harry.  I've  laid  mine  twice  and  both  times 
the  building  has  fallen  about  my  ears.  I  shall 
never  build  a  Westminster  Abbey.  [He  takes 
up  the  pistol.~\  Lend  me  this  .  .  .  thing,  will 
you? 

Archie.     If  you  want  it,  I  .  .  . 

Harry.  It  will  be  of  infinite  use  to  me.  I 
will  keep  it  {he  goes  to  desk,  opens  a  drawer 
and  drops  it  in,  locking  the  drawer'\  as  a  re- 
minder. [He  turns.li  When  I  marry  you  and 
Effie  .  .  . 

Archie.     Marry?  .  .  .  Will  you? 

Harry.     I  shall  be  proud,  old  man. 

Archie.  Oh,  I'll  work  so  hard  to  deserve 
this,  sir. 

Harry.  Of  course  you  will,  and  when  I 
marry  you  and  Effie  we  will  throw  that  pistol 
away.  Before  that  time  comes  we  will  both 
work  hard  to  earn  the  right  to  do  so.  [Mrs. 
P.  and  Effie  stop  in  front  of  window.     They 


ACT  IV  127 

are  arm  in  arm  and  both  carry  roses.  Mrs,  P. 
taps.  Archie  springs  forward  and  opens  win- 
dow.'\ 

Mrs.  P.  We  are  going  to  give  these  to 
Mary  Ann's  baby,  dearest. 

Harry.  Thank  you.  \^Mrs.  P.  stretches 
out  her  hand  to  Archie.  He  darts  forward  and 
bows  over  it.  She  smiles  at  him  and  leads  Effie 
of  R.     The  gong  sounds  loudly.'] 

Archie  \_turning'\.     Ah! 

Harry.  Yes.  God's  in  His  Heaven.  .  .  . 
I  wonder  what's  for  breakfast!  [Harry  walks 
to  the  boy,  takes  his  arm  and  they  go  of  to- 
gether.'] 


[Curtain.] 


9  ."^  5i  « 


S      li     L     F 
SEE  SPINE  1    ;R  BARCODE  NUMBER 


SOUTHERN  BRANCH, 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA, 

LIBRARY, 

l^S  ANGELES.  CALlR 


